Journaling, as a form of meditation, can open the window to the Muse. But is it safe? |
Geometry There is a point on a plane, in plain English a dot, for what is a dot but a spot? and diving through it, is a line, unlike “How are you doing?” or “What are you doing tonight?” I laugh at the mirror in the morning, and cry into my journal before breakfast. The point on the plane moves, so mundane yet fiercely chasing the bottle. It describes my world, delineates my life. And I, sitting in it, breath deep and wonder, why all this busy chatter? When will I begin to hear? This point on this plane dances in pain, and reminds me that I’m a dummy, and the dogs want out, and other things worse . . . like a fat man walks in his underwear somewhere out there, he is a sphere of knowledge, a seer of pain and hatred, born from depravity, nurtured by ignorance, plucked in a harvest of hatred. What if I followed him? And as the point on the plane describes my world, delineates my life— I, sitting in it, breath deep and wonder, if about the bottle I truly care, should I find a compass or a square? ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This poem is from "Bottle in the River" about a Poet's journey down a river, chasing a bottle tossed by the fingertips of "that I am." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Written within the parameters of the theory of "Multivalence" |