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  • last mad adventure before the end. Perhaps that is the way I will go.

    (from Mad dog, mad dog by Diane Jardel)

    An adventure, hmm
    perhaps that is the way I will go
    A coastline town, another tongue
    a different ethos for beholding outside
    & daily, the trickle-down will kindle inside

    New words for the same things
    How wonderful!
    Tools with which to tinker
    for the wee boy always in re-construction

    New’s just an old favourite toy
    looking for a fresh coat of paint

    We buy tickets, we take trains
    we re-locate** by aeroplane
    really never knowing why
    only that we want to knowing that we can
    every thing is always different
    & everything’s the same

    What then to appease?

    To live in the wind's rustle
    down a white expanse of sail that
    flaps if it’s gusty, ripples in steady breeze
    To live in sensations inscribed upon bone,
    the earthy universe beneath my skin
    the hard curve of a baseball
    gripped precisely with purpose
    Swirls of our brushwork
    animate with perspective & are naught
    but oily arrangements when seen from up close

    Look how the darkness beckons
    as you step toward the light. Entire worlds there are
    undwelt in every choosing of a fork
    like stones unturned
    left at the wayside not to be known
    gravemarkers for lives unlived

    How do we evidence paths we have shunned?
    What words will we tool for the things not felt?
    Who will speak for them?

    Tough thought though!
    Distraction. Constant deviation from essential alive!
    Great God in heaven we breathe the very air
    breathe the very air!

    Alive, we resort to camouflage
    truth with clothes on, Adam with a leaf
    nakedness is not sexy.
    Removal of layers, stripping to underpinnings,
    this is sensual. There the thrill.
    The thing laid bare is not.
    But still, in the unadulterated commonplace of dermis
    we are no longer falsified

    Set free from our selves for a moment
    from paradigm, encumbrance, our own myth
    we find in a thrice that we are threadbare
    We need. We yearn. We seek.
    Most of our one-time voyage is inside anyway
    where nakedly we know what we wish were not so

    Uncivilized as such, we adorn the dread. Adrift
    we cling to one another. Comforted, we forge ahead
    strong as the weakest link

    * Old Norse phrasal verb fara í víking "to go on an expedition"
    **reference here is to non-vacation re-location
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