She shyrockets into the tufts of tomorrow
I suckle on the marrow inside memory
and imagine
Whoever gets their fist first wins
The rest receive a pat on the ass
That's what these bushes teach me
"Would you rather Pavement or the world?" He asks us
"Hope," we all could reply
How many times do I have to stand amid art and listen to pandering drivel of pompous asses
Too long it seems
They must feel it's important
They are so silent now
"Souled", he says
Smokers outside smoke the man and his microphone that smotes us
I am reminded of why poetry is a black art
We were the Brussels of humanity, if just for a moment, we believed that the believable was worth believing in and that which is unknown had no meaning and didn't need to be recognized, just filled a space that did not exist to us, but perhaps by knowing or believing that these unknowns filled a non-existent space beautifully,we recognized that while their purposes were unknown they existed, they were something outside us, but perhaps inside others, known and may be felt by others and those others we too will never know and they will never know us Even though we do not know them and do not give significance to the unknown and unknowable that they might or might not know, at least for a moment, we see the people we do not know who know unknowable things and perhaps at that moment they are aware of us and recognize that we might or might know the unknowable things that they refuse to name In that precise moment, though we do not know each other, we may be able to know what we know and do not know, as if those ideas we never had ourselves become real because one of us knows or has had that idea and those ideas and things that remain unknowable become real in the space created between us by each of us thinking or recognizing each others existence at the same moment
And those ideas come to us from seemingly nothing and out of those ideas derive invention
But perhaps this is nonsense and not worth an effort It should have been kept a secret, unshared, but my ruminations are so completely within me, that this consumption may seem palpable even to those who do not know me, but only know my surfaces, those things within myself that may rise and appear, whether I decide to show them or not, as if my will were choiceless and my consumptions easily seenFrank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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