Sometimes serious

A piece about the river bubbling? Or the rolling hills. Winter leaves rustling Or springtime joy. Piano speaking of a yarn spinning Or the night sky in string harmonics Or the conversation of a trumpet and a voice. Maybe. But the sound of time rumbling? A piece about the essence of life? A soundscape that captures all of love? Rather than a small story? The song of the harmony of the spheres? Instead of tops spinning Why associate higher symbolism to something As temporal and recurrent as music? Why project our ideas of what is worthwhile and aim for every word we write? Every note we sing, to be a masterpiece? Instead of just being what it is for itself. A temporal little being.

There is no motion in a moment In an infinitesimal time slice, there is stillness Absolute certainty and knowledge of space. It's not possible to have an infinitesimal slice of time  that can imply other slices of time That can be integrated under a curve to form time itself. And for once, the part doesn't represent the whole. Some notes don't represent the soul And when we sit by a rock in an impending embrace And our eyes come together for a kiss which doesn't even exist in the meeting of the lips but of the mind. Not the presence of a glance but the kind And that is where you can have lived Every dream could be remembered as a past And the line between what is thought and what has happened Slowly ceases to exist And the rigor of reality cannot control the intention of the mind. I sense that you have come close already when you have wanted to You have held me and shown me comfort which would otherwise Also not exist in

Stains of graphite and ink stain my view of the world again and again Should i question until i die or should i rather just take in these advertisements, and eat and drive along and access my body like it were, a cog of the world order which, as always, is incapable of explaining itself. It is incapable of laying down its motivations as am i. It is as haphazard and fast as the smallest  brownian particle, as it can be.  And as much as we could hypothesize  and act as if our planetary system was an atom And collapse into anarchy, never eating or sleeping Or as much as we could stimulate every meaning that we could seek Milking sense from the world Respecting laws and tenets and ethics and freedom In a world where things will get engulfed by heat and fire And wisps of dream and smoke of hopes will Escape from this matter that we have been pinned to, for ever. And as cars drive by, cities light themselves up And trees respire like they always