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Chords of High Syncopation

I must tell you exactly, in the strict syntax of unflappable
chords, the way these tameless beasts
eventually got their unexpected freedom,
assuredly and certainly–not for any flimsy liberation ideals,
or any unfamiliar concept of
gracious justice and fairness—but still their sinuous flow of
power was a tender sight to see, the beauty of it feels strange, but,
what I mean is, that an inexplicable force of brute
impact is visible in re-entering
with no warning a scape never really designed
to be comfortable or stable or cozy,
a schism shorn apart since primordial times, a sad
song diving into sorrow, sunk in the quick-sands of memory,
as a number of sly snapshots from the past
should insist to remain alive and active, they feel heavier
and seem to matter more, for a while
at least, cannot decide at this
uncanny juncture of my existence whether
impeded-less memory is a burden to the neuron
connections of sanity, a weight,
the fluctuations of a clogged bagpipe, just recovering
some of those past snippets can be harsh and painful,
the hermetic time capsule of remembrance is emptying fast, the sands of
forgetfulness flowing and glowing,
but we can cannot pick what
remains and what is inconsolably lost. There is insidious sorrow in
admitting that. Taking as an incomparable test
case, if hate used to project
loss and despondency, it has now become more
of an implied bullfight, the ability to shout it aloud, a fight
subtle and cruel: The sayings of the
wise. The guru that shines through
seen by some as the luminary of the hour, the man of glory,
appearing half willing, half hesitant,
to extract any developing hope from the darkness’
corners of rueful sadness, the endless pit
of losses and furtive disappearances. Yes.
The dark side of light-ness. And the
extrication of humbleness from the
insidiously porous entrance of particles that befog clear sight of the
ceremonious unbraiding of concepts—
what kind of names and verbs confuse and confound?
A smitten hardness enters the chambers
of deeper, sharp awareness, a form
of sorrow that lurked in small, hidden fissures—
your perception told you so—a minor
staccato, distraught, acceptance of the ethical
conundrums of life and demise, the anesthetic power to
cast a soul to tartarus, a gehenna of dire
consequences waiting with a mouth wide open
to consume thought, and sense, and feeling. And faith.