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© 2014 @seangarrettthepen
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My body never used to need things.
I could forget about
food, about speaking,
about lights, about daytime and nightime,
about needing. Slipping through
life as a ghost. Only
a ghost; to see life
for what it was.

My body reacts
before my brain
thinks there is a need
to do something.

This amnesia
makes you question
every aspect.
More and more,
each time,
you try to prove the past
to yourself.
Only one person,
yet so many
histories.

There was one rhetoric
which knew
how to present itself.
It took people by the hand
and guided them through its land in no less
than 12 minutes.
It took them even less to believe.

Nowadays it’s difficult
to get anyone to believe
what they don’t see
or experience for themselves.
Really believe, I mean.

In this wild digital world
something vanished
and later some thing appeared in its place;
a garden for a laboratory.
How is it time always wins?
There was nothing in the box, but sand.
Suppose I took a handful and built a castle
of digital dimensions and space, carefully cubed
and calculated in its shape, but devoid of substance.
If you touch or attempt to integrate, it will erode.

Lead the way to any cave, my ghost. The cold sand means nothing under nails or collar; I wonder where we are and you ask if it matters. How one fractured pavement could lead to this, I’ll never understand. I thought we saw things clearly from our chair by the beer pong table, but from one dying beast to another, I’ve been told to keep my life in a tapestry and my love in a knot.

Bottom’s up.

Could you see what a paradox city we wrote? I’m full now, take me home and empty me under closer moons. You step around my toes, but I cry either way. I find shadows and excuses to kiss everywhere I go. Once, you tried to coax me down from the ceiling: “Sell your song to me, or better yet your sanity.” The farthest I could move was onto the shelf. “Cancel all subscriptions and order-ins,” I said, “My hair is down for you.”

Every tan rolling meadow will turn into housing
Freeways are clogged all day
Academies packed with scholars writing papers
City people lean and dark
This land most real
As its western-tending golden slopes
And bird-entangled central valley swamps
Sea-lion, urchin coasts
Southerly salmon-probes
Into the aromatic almost-Mexican hills
Along a range of granite peaks
The names forgotten,
An eastward running river that ends out in desert
The chipping ground-squirrels in the tumbled blocks
The gloss of glacier ghost on slab
Where we wake refreshed from ten hours sleep
After a long day’s walking
Packing burdens to the snow
Wake to the same old world of no names,
No things, new as ever, rock and water,
Cool dawn birdcalls, high jet contrails.
A day or two or million, breathing
A few steps back from what goes down
In the current realm.
A kind of ice age, spreading, filling valleys
Shaving soils, paving fields, you can walk in it
Live in it, drive through it then
It melts away
For whatever sprouts
After the age of
Frozen hearts. Flesh-carved rock
And gusts on the summit,
Smoke from forest fires is white,
The haze above the distant valley like a dusk.
It’s just one world, this spine of rock and streams
And snow, and the wash of gravels, silts
Sands, bunchgrasses, saltbrush, bee-fields,
Twenty million human people, downstream, here below.

At Tower Peak – from No Nature by Gary Snyder. Copyright© 1992 by Gary Snyder. Online Source