Poetry, Moments, and a Point

It keeps happening, this upheaval, like a battle that will not end because either side is prepared in parody for the other. I'll read a line of a poem, or a stanza, or a verse, or a short story and bury myself in the images, six feet deep and four feet wide. I feel at peace and tired, but soothed and clear. That moment after reawaking to the possible beauty of depiction is sublimity. It's the ideal taste of a grape colliding, overtaking, and matching the ripe grape you finger into your mouth not expecting it to taste like much at all.

But then it all collapses.

Life is a continuum, like the fourth dimension of time I'm told is. And while moments are the brail for life's smooth silken plain, they are fleeting: The holes in the contact paper of self-playing pianos are beautiful when you can see what the machine will play next, not knowing what it will sound like but witnessing its means for existence is beautiful. Well, eventually there are no more holes because no song can last forever and pianos can not play themselves forever. Moments are fleeting, just stains on the great expanse of sheet covering the mattress of your dreams.

I'll find my zen in a phrase and lose it dwelling. It flies away, perhaps because I scare it off its branch or that it just prefers other perches. I wish there were no such things as distractions or real life, but just poetry. And all the poetry could come together to create the New real world so I'd never lose track. But then, the process would be backwards and we wouldn't need the poems to remind us of the beauty behind, over, around, but most importantly of the brick wall on 23^rd street. Or the things like it.

If things were perfect there would be no moments and I would forget my peace in having it always. I'd much rather realize and lose then complacently never notice.