As Snow, the Body Long(s)
A Poem by O.G. Rose
The airport, Dulles, a variable, is on the (un)fenced road
to the singularity: the destination of planes.
Tempting, for there is snow, an attempt at two-dimensions,
and, without windows, subterranean,
the time of day would be inconsequential
and ever-lasting, like a flat line
buzzes. But everything that identifies with itself
dies, yet nothing that tends toward death
must go away — a thought, in its trouble,
snow — there, there — can re-mind.
Heart:
success without mastery
does not exist.
Ticker:
it is only the easiest of all possible challenges
that failing makes us horrors.
Starving in the snow — there, there — teaches
we are not (yet) the body that longs to be us.
The body is the lover, lost.
Conductors stand before orchestras and move hands
as if notes need direction to fit, but dancers, electric,
conduct. Lift a finger at a moon, rooftop, balcony, lamppost…
where music, light, cannot there,
there —
Is this (a) painting?
Nature brims with patterns
that are dangerous to point out
and must be — with a finger,
a spell, the thought enters through a slit in the air,
cut by a sharpness of neurons, that perhaps the pattern
can be lifted out of the slick hills and heavy flowers
and not leave everything to melt and dust.
Snow cracks.
Cracks, not the known — in-sight.
Knowing is of the there, before us — a point.
Wisdom is of what isn’t, around us — a circle.
We are points, yes, but is just ever just just?
The loss of the will to live is the loss.
Thought fits to will when there is no point before —
a field long-ing on along a plane(t) — and there is always the day
when there are no points in points. Snow (points —
there) falling to where
points are, together,
all lost. Geometry sublated up as it comes
down to blanket
like white dirt.
Re-member:
mastery is prepared not controlling.
What we render automatic dies then kills —
there. What we live by overflows from us.
Does snow freeze
or move? The terrain under,
snow makes the land feel long,
and I find myself longing to walk it.
“Let us go outside.”
Direness increases electricity for movement:
there is no point where there is no hope.
Laugh:
when the rain stays —
magic. We want revelation more than meaning.
Snow is the blanketing revelation
that freedom, like dance, is ours, not yours or mine.
The great permission from toil:
do it different, and not be thought different.
Sit, miss the flight, and not be lazy.
Sip drink, and not be slow.
Step outside, and see it must cover —
make it new in its always —
or else there is only choice —
a step, indention, step, indention —
that we can question —
there is risk in winter.
From my legs:
Let us go out-side.
Under —
damnation is when we are stuck
in what can be different. Can the machine be changed
by repetition, as can the human,
or is the machine true repetition?
Over —
along the road, that ( )bird on the fence post, shaking off white,
does what is relevant, while I can realize what is relevant,
not stuck on the fence, which is why I can be lost
in mind. I cannot be lost in head. My head is body,
a thread for the labyrinth with the inhumanity of me.
The shivering bluebird cannot be its maze, which affords me opportunity
that, unrealized, in snow, can burn.
Bring head into mind, into-itself not in-itself, or regret
not being the bird with the loose neck and turning eyes.
Look upon works:
the bird cannot be in-bird,
but I can be in-human.
Changing (formation) — there made there —
why does the burying alive enliven?
Much ado is about being able to speak it,
words that leave it behind for that moment of feeling with it
before walking again along the fenceposts,
in their winter — step, indention, step —
and not saying a word,
for (not) yet. All we can do is open a mouth.
All this —
why of snow?
We develop through layers of paint
more than traveling to a plane.
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