How many nights?
How many hours?
How many words?
Efforts?
Deeds?
Projections?
Rejections?
Real and imposed,
now over,
now true,
not repeated.
This is an unknown
that is even unknown
so unknown the
unknown knows nothing of its
own unknown.
Rhythm all these
such no
know no rest,
no rest for the wicked,
none for the righteous
either.
None,
press on,
press every thought
deed and break only
on the rage.
It only belongs on
the page
It only belongs on
its word
each does
each goes
each flow
each mind
each scramble
so close
to an end
so far from a beginning
and they are there,
real,
and the same,
the same truth,
the same lie,
neither are real
yet both are real
and this is
not a paradox
not a contradiction.
It is a job,
a reel, once,
source to employ
mind and hearts of
a romantic ploy
but also a way to
keep them in place.
Here is strung the real word
the real time
the real song
the real art
and I to judge
what is the real!
Ha!
So you laugh
you mock
you grunt
you sigh
I do as well.
Here it rings
rings high
High,
high on end.
End upon end.
But this is no
end.
Nor means
nor is it even indulgence.
It is some idea,
some pursuit we have
forgotten in the short ring of
human memory
only in the
limiting realms
of their own history.
What history?
What winner?
What ideas?
What limiting?
What verbal?
What act?
What sight
Who is to define
the real
the what
the we
the us
the I
the self.
We are real
we are here
even only in thought.
Disease of the mind
are real diseases,
no pain
no obscurity
is ever a real choice.
No right wing politic
is true.
No demagogue rhetoric
holds fair.
All idiotic thought
drones on,
all rhetoric ends.
I don’t need
a soapbox.
I don’t need a joke-box.
I need a laugh
and a wank.
Don’t we all,
What is our lust.
Delivered.
Our medication,
a gift.
What is our truth.
Indulgence is a privilege.
Excess was supposed
to be a sin.
Extremes are the
real sin.
No center
no balance
this is my culture
and these are my tears.
This is my pain,
and it is healed.
Your concern is to
all its own medicine,
in any dose,
in any grace,
any necrophilic
ideal fails
and only love’s
lust wins.
Love lust and
lust is love
and understanding
brings balance.
Once brought,
it is sold
never cheap
never a waste.
So here,
this new color,
this bright ring this
undue end.
Bought,
sold
paid
and broken feature.
No more “god”
only the real god.
the real
unnamed
not a tao
for that is a name,
no more names,
end the name,
but gain the self
and do all with
love,
to gain
to gain and give
is to hold that gain
even in moments
of the worst luck
will this be true.
No point in derivative
lies,
excess extent and wasted
seconds
and ink
and pages.
Smoke, drink, sing,
and read.
Life is not a bitch
but a beautiful woman.
Listen to his fable,
sweet talk this
princess.
James J Jackson 