to all you others <Rm>
Jac
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It was a cold Tuesday
When I last saw him--
sometime in November: (I think)
The raindrops mingled
With the distinct smell (molten gold) of
His blood.
"I am immortal on Wednesdays,"
He told me.
"Now is now always."
[And that, with the water
running into his eyes--
forest silver--
His arms--
Spread like wings across the
Expanse of time, I knew
it was the truth.]
Fridays I never saw him.
He was too busy being.
At night
He usually hunted ghosts.
Mostly,
He found them asleep in the
White reserve
of shadow-stars...He let them sleep.
When the sun
Blown like leaves
In the wind
Arrived in spring,
He watched the world begin again.
"Ecce! The multitudes of men.
They segregate, integrate, segmentate,
Fragmentate.
They're all-all alone
(But they forget)
They're all themselves--but--
...Why do they wish to be some(one) else?"
He told me on a Thursday that God lived
across the street from him.
He laughed from the bay window
that overlooks the city
he laughed at the ostriches
Running with their heads in the sand.
"They forget," he says--with unbelief--
"or did they ever know?
It takes less than spring to make life grow.
You can smell the crow feathers
And paint a dream--
The multitude isn't you."
(You are not the multitude.)
He smiled at the ocean, too,
For it was no bigger than he.
I used to wonder--before--
How the clouds came to live in
his eyes.
Now I wonder no more,
I understand how he lives in
Green iron
leaves-scattered spirits.
"Meaning?" he asked on Monday.
He smiled (smiled his world, smiled his smile)--
And he pointed at himself.
[Where is he now? Here.]
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Rm