Thought I'd share a partially completed essayistic poem. Please forgive the inevitable pretension with any such thing.
Sound is important, but far less are meter and verse. As with all such things, I hope I haven't shot myself with the arrow into the wind, and been made fool by committing thought to word. It isn't finished, and I'm not sure I like it, but it is something enough to share.
the team that gets it.
And then doesn't.
But they do get you: this could be it
that WTF beyond the empirical--enigmatic, incomprehensible,
but radiant and very, real, magic.
'6damn2, 87, maybe '89, 199-damn 3, ^F@!UCK&*ING-game-six02 (add '03 on that, if you really need to count).
I could never be anything else; the colors imprint perception
itself; Memory made monad.
This year could be it. Maybe?
But I wonder; If such is what we are
what will be the team that does?
Is 'magic' simply sustained,
or must Torture itself be fought?
(and only from within)?
Torture is no marketing word;
Being a personification, a caption
from a great teacher. Minted,
this year; could this be it? Posey's recaptiulation?
Time. aeternitas temporis terminus