Sunday, December 1, 2019

A Scuffed Contentment

Most fantasies go like this—
Proper names and common nouns,
Unattached pieces of light,

Encircled by narrative
Scraps of connective tissue
That swirl around and around 

In the mind, make a vortex 
Of inertia, dread, and hope.
But most fantasies aren’t this.

This goes by too many names,
This, unnameable as God,
(Also named too many names)—

Here-and-now, experience,
Presence, the Thing-in-Itself,
On-going, quotidian,

Moment-to-moment, blooming,
Buzzing, what’s happening, this.
No one fantasizes this.

What would a fantasy be
That did not roll up the mind
Like a tight cyclorama 

Of lurid, implausibly
Projected mythologies?
Can one fantasize what is?

Only by not naming it,
Maybe, putting terms aside,
Dropping all analogies

That are themselves fantasies,
Fingers pointing at the moon,
Fictions of animal bliss.

The problem with existence,
As with mere divinity,
Is whether, without the names,

Without the attention names,
Narratives, and sculptured light
Bring dreams, this ever exists.

Let’s fantasize this like this.
Set yourself aside with me.
Whisper what this feeling is.

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