The heart of truth
The organ of truth in the human sure seems to be the heart. The heart loves commitment to an absolute, no matter what that absolute might be.
I invented a new form of poetry this morning. Its poetry like software, with recursion. I have had this sense that it was possible for some time.
At the museum, looking at art.
I stood in front of a canvas covered completely in yellow
A few lines scattered here and there, from which emerged
A cats eye, stepping back it turned out to be a landscape
That turned into a rear view mirror on a yellow car
showing the lights in the store and the line on the road.
I, a subject we can not speak of properly
Stood stand stare
It was cold and wet watching that car
Fearing that cat’s eye, the few lines like
Like claw marks ripping the canvas
Yellow permeating my pores
In not out
Front, as in before, before I entered that/this world
Canvas of my life before me, standing their naked
With yellow skin.
That eye my eye,
Looking out from the yellow
Seeing a world colored by me.
Few implies many, but many something else.
Everything implying its not, except for the scattered
Lines emerging into the space
The space I stand in
Cat and mouse. Yes, that eye makes me feel like the mouse
Caught under the paws of that eye struggling for my last breath
And escape.
Escape that is not possible because ultimately this is my life, my
Landscape, meaning that this is the domain that I cannot depart
Looking in the rear view mirror I fancy that I have escaped, but
The line in the mirror and the light of the store on the road tell me
That I am only looking back at my own life.
This is my road, in my mirror, my eye emerging on
A cold and rainy night, standing in front of
A Yellow Canvas
r.slime
I invented a new form of poetry this morning. Its poetry like software, with recursion. I have had this sense that it was possible for some time.
At the museum, looking at art.
I stood in front of a canvas covered completely in yellow
A few lines scattered here and there, from which emerged
A cats eye, stepping back it turned out to be a landscape
That turned into a rear view mirror on a yellow car
showing the lights in the store and the line on the road.
I, a subject we can not speak of properly
Stood stand stare
It was cold and wet watching that car
Fearing that cat’s eye, the few lines like
Like claw marks ripping the canvas
Yellow permeating my pores
In not out
Front, as in before, before I entered that/this world
Canvas of my life before me, standing their naked
With yellow skin.
That eye my eye,
Looking out from the yellow
Seeing a world colored by me.
Few implies many, but many something else.
Everything implying its not, except for the scattered
Lines emerging into the space
The space I stand in
Cat and mouse. Yes, that eye makes me feel like the mouse
Caught under the paws of that eye struggling for my last breath
And escape.
Escape that is not possible because ultimately this is my life, my
Landscape, meaning that this is the domain that I cannot depart
Looking in the rear view mirror I fancy that I have escaped, but
The line in the mirror and the light of the store on the road tell me
That I am only looking back at my own life.
This is my road, in my mirror, my eye emerging on
A cold and rainy night, standing in front of
A Yellow Canvas
r.slime