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I thought of myself today, a moment a go, (this very act being wanton and gross as accords our measures propriety):
I think of myself first as a human, seemingly so;
Next as a writer or musician of various resonant bodies
But as I enumerate the list of things which so declare
The purposes for myself which I've found by accidence
Or purposeful introductions most treasured
(so many among many more being -
hunter of game, roller of dice and dealer of cards;
swimmer of lengths of California pools amid midsummer glare heinously bright
swatter of mosquitoes on lakeshores in Yosemite
stalker of deer in forest parks
smirk-addled golfer who'd rather (and did) turned carts in doughtnuts in the middle of night;
reader of books all read like a dish devoured until the tongue's the only appropriate utensil
And likewise so many literal dishes enjoyed to an equally literal tantric degree - )
All the verbs I've employed, and the nouns I've enlivened with participation of my entire extension,
Among these though I've so rarely found, or
I've not found at all any declaration of the following things:
Man,
American,
Western pedigree
Though such things in analogue declare to represent me
So Abstractedly
As much as I from them recoil -
And with a dead Germanic author, a freethinker born,
Behind me in the spiritual sense
Saying 'Such things, granfalloons
And as such do not entertain
Their salience as truth everlasting..'
And so as I did before, and now enforced thusly so by imaginings of a stranger now several years dead,
I find in myself the definition of motion
And those paths which coax out my clause
Of purpose and such, and other such things so grudgingly described in the full:
Though they not must be so
To retain their whole and incandescent loves
Which dovetailed in This Emptiness, Me -
Brings forth to light the spacious made bright
And one whom to be known by your sight..
So be it - it goes.
