This moment is the one
where we know there is a connection point,
a constellation of experience.
One must simply connect the dots,
appreciating the nuances of shade.
No one can be put on pillars anymore,
the truth always comes out,
the messiah figure with the drug problem.
Today’s crime is an expression
of yesterday’s common practice
and the time words became crazy,
life coming in sudden manic motions,
can be traced back like heritage
to the unkind words of a father
or the sullen face of a stranger,
a harsh word wandering like a stray cat.
When the rainbow showed up, the stories
say it was a promise, but that was images
and eons ago. That was at least two
legends removed from certainty.
Now the main character in the story
has begun to suspect his plight as a picaresque
plot-plodding figment and he knows
the last page approaches,
a cliff on cleverly bound paper.
The narrative can no longer be trusted,
just like patchwork, like a quilt language,
or the way light moves faster, blending colors,
Joyce saying, Let’s do something new.
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