Blind date with a poem
Is it strange that I no longer want to write a poem for you in words? We lost the word. We lost it in a few ways.
When the word is same circle of reflection and production, it is then a stale creation. Why keep muddying your river, I say? You wouldn’t want her to be like your another lover who just doesn’t believe in love anymore. Why love then? Do I still believe in the word?
If I was to hypothetically tell you that I no longer believe in the word, do not see it as a blasphemy. I am simply saying may be I need to cross the word to write you a poem. I have my clay. Perhaps, I also have my stone, and also my hair, and a snail I find over and over again in my shelves, my clothes and my letters. Perhaps I could use them all rather than the word to write you a poem.
If I was to still believe in the word, that I have certainly not concluded yet, then I need to pull the right word of this very moment and keep beading until there is a poem from every moment of the entire existence. But we all know that the right word is an illusion to begin with. So what shall I do then? Perhaps I could keep trying until there is one, knowing that there will be none. Perhaps something like that absurdist of mine tells me. Even just one right word. Just one. Perhaps.
I shall write you a poem with or without the word but I will make sure it is worthy of your right word.
Until next time.
Choose your deity, those shallow eyes
peering out between breaths, exhausted
in endless word games of belief.” — Jack Preston King
An ongoing experiment. Join me.