This is not a spoken poem
Of this inside of myself
It is about how they are in the desert
A desert of literature as spoken poem.
Illusory spaces, I dream. Many of us “pass” the landscape,
The beautiful and the most vulnerable about this us of us
Sometimes a more vast and enormous wilderness inside
Than that journaled out in the way they are, here.
This grand poetry, one filled with an infinite propensity for homeland
Solitary in pre-thought assurances
And an intuitive understanding of spoken word.
All this resulting in three inescapable objects,
Objects whose first glance ramifications define the image.
Image, thought, form.
I can remember viewing through this desert of understanding
Laced with the ever-present promise of infinite possibility.
As a comfort, I came to know what drove invaders, what advanced for them,
What was the very desire to see the thread running through all considered,
If only once more in this lifetime, If only once more.
Here where the desert must create a boundary between language and image,
Here where one must go to the multiple to even begin to describe
Here lies the one thing one expects to find from them, their presence.
I am thus, the process, a grand poetry, a visual poetry, a textual given language
I am images that are over real, part illusion, of their own land of their own selective focus I lived as they are with images separating one person from another
The process that I am a comfort to, the spoken poem re-considered.
The infinite geography of our inhabited space,
And the closer, the layer, this obscurantism that I was object to also.
This is not a spoken poem
