Not Quite a Haiku

Writers, poets, cut-outs and paste-togethers from the popular lexicon magazines, you stencil and spray-paint letters in that army surplus font that has vertical lines missing down the center of each one, as if to say "ten percent of each letter is going to taxes, so that every time you say the word literally, you literally exist in every way that existence is possible other than the way that word is posed to designate" as well. Or maybe as if to say "these letters don't exist until you-the-reader fill in those blank spots through the letters with your keen pattern-recognition minds, thereby fulfilling the unspoken-but-much-aligned contract between author and reader that allows for how much influence the writing has on each of them. 

The writing has influence on the writer: for being a tool that barely existed before sitting down and using it - pen and ink or keyboard and interface, mostly, but really whatever the form, the substance behind it is a tool shared by many minds - kind of like an old-fashioned meme, in the sense of an idea that is shared for its essence, which at least by it's ubiquity and variety seems to prove, across a swath of subscribers to such a meme, that it transcends any single iteration. And yet words continue to insist upon having dictionary definitions (although most of them have multiple defs that vary per context, some of them share a sound, altho different spehllings and meenings, whilst others share other things - homonyms, homophones, the prefix "homo-" apparently indicates sharing things. Like "homosapien" a shared humanity, or "homoszechuan" sharing spicy chinese food... anyways.

Writing has influence on a reader who didn't write it, because although we of the human brains share many memes, the trend still seems to be that through our unique experiences, personalities, and that special snowflake-ness (snowflakey?) that makes each individual innately divided from the cultural melting pot (once it's melted is it a molten pot? i guess the soup is always melting and re-crystalizing, in this way ever refining, reducing and recombining so that the culture stays pure yet evolves into new things it never could've imagined it might have been. So a molten pot) and THROUGH this if you're still following word-for-word, the reader has an opportunity to dialogue, albeit with themselves, and test the new meme season against their tried and true personal meme hall of fame. I guess we all have our "things", and we pitch them against one another to find out whether or not it's "a thing". Basically. Err, literally. Metaphorically, but irl.

Remember that fever dream that made everyone into copies of you, like Being John Malkovich, and then every thing that wasn't you anthropomorphed into even more of you, like the walls and the table and the bookshelf, but they were just your eyes because your supervisual imagination is the truest sense of you, but then they all started blinking, or winking, or some other numerical wave of perception protection like an Alex Grey animation gone wrong, and vibrationally they all begin to shut because there wasn't enough of "you" to feed the dream of Superyou. So then it was just you alone reading a book by candlelight and writing footnote commentary in your companion journal. And you wrote another cross, but had to differentiate so you put a second horizontal line below where the two arms extend, and then a third.

I really just sat down to recollect thoughts and feelings from playing guitar in the park while the sun set and the birds murmurated. I wanted to write a poem that payed tribute to the timelessness of nature, and the seasons, and their beauty. How original.

Here it is:

nature
is patient

way more patient than us

a sunset
is brief
like me

if i could be like nature
i would meditate
and find my mind to be a battlefield

while the mind of nature
is an impression of light and phenomena
painted by a master
consistently and continuously, constantly

so that when i come along
and go
it is beautiful
and sad
i hope more beautiful than sad
but no matter
when i run out of song
nature is there to remind me
to return