Recently Written 01/22/08 - (2)
Cíbola With my fully loaded Bic ballpoint, Blank, blue-ruled leaf of Boorum & Pease notebook, And imagination primed to find Cíbola,
Probe the surfaces of my saturnine mind's moon, I set off, this solitudinous night, In the flimsiest of vessels, courage,
Hoping to locate even a meager reason To justify journeying to the core of my being, Dispel all doubts about my earthly purpose.
A surge of euphoria buoys me, Albeit one born of nostalgia and naiveté, A romantic faith in metamorphosis and transcendence,
Known only to medieval alchemists, jesters, and poets. And I sense success is imminent, That within eons, lifetimes, hours, minutes,
I'll be creating, from crystalline, oracular visions, Insights, reflections, perceptions So intensely intimate, so ecstatically spiritual,
That my missives home, my good-news gospels Will glow with the holiness of ancient sacred scrolls Rolled up, like trees of life not yet given light.
But suddenly, to my mortification, My ebullience subsides, to the ebb and flow Of oceanic tides washing through space,
From the spinning edges of my saturnine moon, Waves crashing onto the shores of my imagination, Persuading me that Cíbola is time —
A finite place where ink and page meet, To define that infinite expanse Creativity contains, in its vast range of possibilities —
And that time's correlatives are not to be tested, Not, categorically, to be taunted, molested, Since everyone knows that her accursed consort is death.
And so it goes, night after night after night. I open and close my notebook, use and stow my pen, Then go to sleep, dreaming of undisclosed Cíbolas.
01/22/08 - (2)
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