POEM: In What Seams Faultless

At certain moments
I am left
In a world
Beyond
That which is
My own
Speechless
In what seams faultless
Only to be
Hereafter
Unleashed
After
Unforked tongue
Speaking freely
To anyone who can
Here
Experiencing such presence
Unfrayed of whoever's might
Raze doubts
Without distinction
Of those naked to the world
And wholly close off
To any conception
Of consummate being
Unfucked
And irreproducible
Sow what
They attest
Ribbing such hipness
I deal
With it
As inconceivable
that is receivable
Soully redeemable
Oar simply unspeakable

This poem is an to the wondrous of and the certainty of certain experiences that expose us to truths that cannot be accessed by the mere triangulation of .  Also, this poem is a tribute to the faced by poets and prophets everywhere where the most deeply experienced truths leave us speechless and yet call us out to speak freely about that beyond that which can be bought.  The gossamer armor of poets and prophets is easily pierced by those prone to pokings.  Cynics and sadists get perverse pleasure in crying out, “I don't buy it.”  To which poets and prophets can only respond “exactly.”  is so much more easily packaged and neatly priced — for those who proffer such things — than the freely given of a singular .

I find myself drawn to the phrase, “I was struck,” as a way to describe this immediate and direct of , free of the “means” inherent in the commerce of daily .  Being struck implies something palpable, perhaps even enough to get the attention of someone who usually requires getting hit on a bit to get them to pay attention.  Still, the shared is more wooing than getting hit upon.  The unspeakable force of this truth is manifest simply by paying attention.  The palpability is more akin to breathing or a beating, the necessity of finding its way into the world but neglected, taken for granite in a more concrete whirled.  The familiarity of this world of steal leaves us petrified and orphaned in a world parently without much forbearance.  The ostensibly passive voice of “being struck” intimates another actor, another subject, tendering an offer so tender that its import counters boarders difficult to cross.  The nourishment is to those who can fiord to see.  Nonetheless, in loo of fiber, many constipating skeptics promptly pooh-pooh any such ; and to their wonderment are unimpressed by what remains.  Mean wile, scorn points at the quiet telling, at what is dumb founded.  The inescapable forest of is stumped. The prize paid is too ironically fined that missing peace in their puzzlement.  Re-covering truth is a threadbare undertaking.  Aww, to be borne again!  natural is the only birth day suits.  Veracity is no wear to be found.  Perhaps the best we can do is to strike a pose and that there is more to come than leaving them in stitches.  There is sow much more than making an offer, that one scant refuse.

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