RALPH MONDAY : The Unknowing
SUSAN H. CASE : Rickrack
WARD KELLEY : Tygers, Sickles and Crack
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The Unknowing Rickrack Tygers, Sickles and Crack

The Unknowing
We do not know who we are. Frail creatures of flesh and blood With transcendental yearnings, We meander like nebula through Space, gazing for some far, distant, Ancient light to penetrate the interstices Of our meager journey. There are certain graces, like archetypal Helpers, that glide with us: Moods and mists of falling snow through Cedars; migrating autumn birds with their Lonely, melancholy sky cries; rain-slicked Forest roads; the whispered sighs of reunited Lovers; wisps of cloud and evaporated storm. Yet, we do not know who we are. These tender mercies manifest themselves Like departed Rome building Empire roads That eventually led to nowhere, nothing, The nada nada nada of futility within the Still point that is never still. They are the Greek Fates, old Oedipus hags Taunting us as we traverse Fortune's Wheel. Spiked memories drunk by the sea Where the great watery song rolls Inward into us, our physical tones Yearning for some manifestation of String theory played out like the Music of the Spheres, so that our Vibrating tune is everywhere and everything. But, we still do not know who we are. We seek the experiential meaning in muted Distractions, vapid entertainments, surface Hungerings like a water strider skittering Across the interface between air and liquid, Most of us eternally devoid of any deeper Conscious musings, wandering like Blind Oedipus seeking the Sphinx's riddle. We are environmental chameleons, Urban and agrarian changelings Amused, bemused, befuddled By MTV and channel changing. Style over substance, further confused By religion's patter, forgetting what The sun really means. We will never know who we are
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

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Irises, Saint-Remy, c.1889
Vincent van Gogh
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The Unknowing Rickrack Tygers, Sickles and Crack

I never did get used to the official start of spring pinging back and forth like an indecisive dog instead of laying well fed in the sun predictably on March Twenty-First. Nor the other seasonal fits and starts. Nor my very pathetic father who crated up suddenly and moved us north in the Bel Air Wagon away from the familiar creped smog of the city the irony of the vehicle lost on my mother, my sister before they all gave up and crept quietly back. Nor the rover eye I married for high flying escape necessitating another jagged uncertain lurch down. Perhaps if I count carefully and circle ten times before sitting. Perhaps if I paint an Asian harmony symbol on my front stoop. Perhaps if I give a dollar to the homeless man on my corner each morning. I can halt some of the zig stall some of the zag add a little level to the mood.
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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The Unknowing Rickrack Tygers, Sickles and Crack

Tygers, Sickles and Crack 
The destination, you know, is forever unseen, suspected, intuited, but never squeezed, even though thousands of religions steel-trapped probable answers such as incense, snakes or oft described graces . . . opiates, some say, for whole populations, while others contend the true laudanum can be discerned while illuminating tygers and xanadu: we're all composing types of prayer, and if words were a form of drugs, then surely poetry is crack cocaine itself . . . yet where is the source of such an exact exhilaration if not the final certitude? Unseen, but perhaps we can glimpse it in rearview mirrors as poets make drive-bys at the truth, scratching away with bones and cogs . . . never quite squeezing off the headshot, but wounding it for certain.
from histories of souls [copyright 2003] by WARD KELLEY
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RALPH MONDAY : The Unknowing
SUSAN H. CASE : Rickrack
WARD KELLEY : Tygers, Sickles and Crack

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