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I: If I was god, a god, yours
mine, any which one, Listen: as I:
spoke of reality – not as the amateur, nor human,
but as an omnipresent beast, a divine myth
something fierce. Something pulsating; power, light.
no need to hide words, stutter across pages
pages of muddled meanings, transcribing love to strangers
I: The forever dance of ineffable forgotten dreams.
oh, but only to awake
and see but angels engage demons in friendship
to see the sun and moon rise as one,
animals talk to man.
Art, all art, merge into universal consciousness
“Truth” would have only but one name.
-Jamie Lauren Siegel 12/09
There is A tormented performer
sage at the bottom of
every broken urn ;
just another raconteur
with unwise audiences to listen
weaving tales only for character
only to withdraw at the precision
in which the world might be
an illusion .
one seeped in slowly through pain
as in through time:
through getting up at dawn and seeing nothing
but colors illuminating the window pain.
through walls that serve no purpose
but to hide the twinge rather than embrace it.
but please don’t impart that on those
who wish to be in an operative reality
away from you. and your magazine memories.
that is all I ask.
She’s pleased to meet your acquaintance,
for tonight you will exchange more then words,
under your watchful lens, universal thrills.
Marked as yours under
positions of twilight’s values,
sending signals to other half hour vampires.
This one is taken.
You light her cigarettes and pay her in broken dreams and a
Jackson, another euphemism is used up, washed up, used in this spun
yarn. Worn prematurely, like imprints in the tracks of time.
You embroider the pillow with the faint knowing—odds and ends
chance of a man who knows no gray shadows in a person.
She lives no lives besides the one who lies beside her in the night.