Consort Of Voices

Voice at first assembly: Superhero do not. Me do. Me tire. Often and easily. Rules forming systems. Discard not infringe. Many I know, love, and admire who persist. Then those who will not care. Respect to them all. The dark stillness of the heart knows the rising. Knows that rising and falling are one, inseparable, vital. Standing silent. Returning. A shipwreck. A fire. Diving straight back. Knowing. Understanding. Reach out. On good days, you hear music. The senses filter all else out. The analytical mind wonders where you lost it. As do the cursed. Superhero.

Voice in the air: Gladness and pain – looking out at the forest of desire and wishing for what was true, even a while back, but is not any longer. Blackness, fear, despair, hope. Accepting nothing suggested, knowing all knowledge to be misconceived, I never was just as I always am. Courage and grace superhero stuff. Whitman stuff. Nietzsche stuff.  I do not need to be known. Or to be understood. Does not mean I do not care. It only means I tire.

Voice at third assembly: The Bible that the daughter reads, the psalm the son sings and wonders, is this about me? Strange how coming of age means different things “in” different ages. To the flamboyant and frivolous and persisting, respect again. I am content with my pulp fiction and The Bad Plus. Is jazz discourse? Discourse leads to nothing. Nothing is as desirable. The fortunate few. Do not form systems. Look up, look up, look up. No conversation please. The word. Meaningless. I am everything. Ever was and ever will be. Not Buddha do. Not superhero do.


Disclaimer: This post is about representation, language, and spaces. My heroes include S. Dasgupta, Superman, S. Buddha, Beatrix Kiddo, Zarathustra, and the body electric. If anything in this post is perceived as offensive to any of them, please talk to my Dad.

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