Mediocrity

The birth-root of a poem,

in the vagrant depths of the anonymous.

And the birth-pangs felt,

in the heart of the surreal.

A moment of deathly ecstasy,

in the living catacombs of existence.

...A celebration of life.

A God of all that is human.

And the godliness, of all that is humane.

Risen from the dust, with the dust, into the dust.

In the drunken madness, of all that is sensual,

is a bliss of the transcendent.

...And a song, of all that is commonplace...rhythms its music,

with the footsteps of the beyond!

A poem.

The deathly silence,

in the space between two breaths.

And the gospel of life,

in the painful lump in a broken throat.

The vagrancy of the unbound..

And a dew-drop of abstraction,

on the palms of the material.

..A poet's paradise!

...

A thing of beauty is a coy forever.

I

I am not me.

I am the search for myself.

A wilderness, a chaos.

I'm the one who made me.

I'm the one who breathes through me.

I'm not the one who lives;

I'm the one who killed me.

Renounce

[I spilled some of me in this poem. Some of the moment.]

Once, I gave my all.

And now they leave me empty.

Not whole, not even an ounce.

All I called mine, drifts away,

And I say I renounce!

...And in this infatuating darkness

of the evanescent moonlight,

I celebrate the birth of light

with the birthpangs of an uncertain dawn.

At this moment

when all ceases to be,

I celebrate my non-existence.

I sing a song.

A song of the midnight sun.