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.