The Story’s Answer Part 5

How many nights?

How many hours?

How many words?





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



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,


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!


So you laugh

you mock

you grunt

you sigh

I do as well.

Here it rings

rings high


high on end.

End upon end.

But this is no


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.


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.




and broken feature.

No more “god”

only the real god.

the real


not a tao

for that is a name,

no more names,

end the name,

but gain the self

and do all with 


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


excess extent and wasted


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 



Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from California.

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