Newman’s Type: -A, The Blood of Memory

sepe sceperos

NEWMAN’S TYPE: -A, THE BLOOD OF MEMORY

 

 to Daddy ‘doc’ Otis D. Newman, my muse, my lost animus, my fatherhoods absence, my lucifer, my true color…

                     "We judge a man’s wisdom by his hope."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

31 days have past still I write as I seek out a single flattened pause that may or may not freeze time into a metallic plastic picture frame

Cheap and flexible, I bend a cracking lightening bolt spread. A stencil made of stuff shadowing a simple dance so the history of you….

the history of me….

can and will be seen as hands feel destructive ruts with curious eyes reflecting alienated must-haves of a time when real was the only flash-

Flashing orbs of sequence glittering the deepest obsidian screens that lit up the nights alone without help or sound

just the pulsing randomness of archaic light, speeding blindly in straight raying lines or snail snarling slows in zig zagging predictability

Yet very precise
Very seasonally

punctual

the winking exhaustion of obsolete suns are still

probing a exploration

Into the darkest onyx
where time may or may not tick
but a line aligns

forming a wait
waiting one by one
to fully experience a relic of a past

Taught to us all only in our dreams by faces that hold nostalgic eyes. The familiar electricity sparking smokey vestiges to evaporate a moment to gravity’s sleepy side

The subconscious ones that hold swaddled newborns within their crystalline essence
are the place absorbed by flash-frozen things
like the 4×7’s that fill up my 3 ringed binders of time

Before weightless life moved into the collective psyches waist
leaving a long ebbing line of lost ageless faces

staring into the void of life

a stranger is missed

a absence is absent

As the multitudes gather
one by one so life in the living can be passed around
(the light of dusty lost life of yonder years)
and can be weighed and wholly solid….

enough to reflect the time’s shadow
that rather it is seen or not seen will

dance
a living kind

the only space left to hold on to time

whether or not time is less or more or even

paused in a real moment only

which gives and gives and

so it gives

preciously

it really gives

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