Reply To: Week 3 Posts – December 5th

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Ok, I didn’t love this poem when I posted it in week one. It’s a collection of crumbs from a very writing-dry past few years. But in the spirit of heavy editing, and with y’all’s loving encouragement (thanks guys), I’m going to keep chewing on it. Here’s draft 2:

A new song that is old

It’s good to be
A new old thing
Totally undescribed and undeserved
Never before seen
but echoing back
From inside everything

The desire springs
From the fragment of a belief
But it’s enough to base a case on

chaste arrangement of status quo puts up a fight
holding tight to obsessive assessment of wrong and right
Busy with incessant recreation
default defunct deficit
And quietly, in my own voice, under nervous no resistance, while choosing to look away
Hints and convictions
Insistent and patient and plain

So it’s time to try a new old thing
living in the pause
holding the crowded whispers like the skeleton of a bird
Shuffling their murmur back over teeth and lips
to mimic and imagine
they’re scheming my fortune and bliss

walking backward into the room
And guessing who’s there from a list longer than pi
Then opening my eyes and forgetting the always
In favor of what I just realized

a silent chat, an aura hustle, a second-nervous-system singing circle
In a little pocket outside of time

try being new in a body so set it might as well be rock candy
This is the fluid stasis before formation.

What about a quiet love
Love in the silence
Accept in the sit
Burn with the craving for approval
From my higher self

What about a bless in the lack
Vacuum becoming a source
More than I am
More than I want
More than the negative space my needs inhabit
I exist in a place that feeds me into being and it is called abundance

Repetition never proved me right
Or took me home
Or bought me drinks
All it’s good for
Is stubbornness
And last straws
And chiseling away at what I know to be true until it shows through

All the old things were once brand new
and all the brand new things were once nothing
I’m on my way to be nothing
I’m on my way to be old
a whole, round, perfect globe
Holding everything in
Holding in a vacuum

there’s something I belong to
that farest rage will still fit inside
Even when I’m inundated
I’m beyond it
It’s inviting me past the edges of myself

If I pile up all the lack, yearning, shame
It threatens to burst like a furnace

But here she comes, with a basket
Ready to gather light and heat
igniting flames and filaments
Like so many fireflies
Filling up walls, ceiling, floor
Until it’s bearable