William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


Well, maybe it’s not exactly like that. After all, writing even a simple sentence is like navigating among icebergs. Each word is that beautiful and dangerous, with almost all of its meaning hidden. And reading the sentence is like waking from a dream to find a snake in your hands. But it doesn’t remain a snake for long. It dissolves into semblance and sense with a glass of ruddy-ripe juice, a sip of hot coffee, or a breath of fresh air. The mind is blown. It needs to be blown. It looks forward to it. It wants to say where it has been, and what it’s been up to in the last century, the last lifetime, the last millisecond. It’s terrible at math. It shuns long division. The mind adds. It multiplies. It’s the last in from recess and first in its class, adored by its teacher, and wide awake on the long bus ride home. There’s a leaf, a graveyard, an old farmer with his dog. Who planted that tree? Is moss really what everyone thinks it is? Of course not. It’s everything no one thinks it is. That’s the source of it’s beauty. It’s nothing anyone thinks. And yet it is. It exists here, between the ears, far out in space, among laughing, unnamed constellations. But of course it’s not exactly like that. What’s needed is a word that’s more than exact. We’re not shopping for cages or building more prisons. We want something that expresses all of the senses, including those of which we remain unaware, each an immense world of delight, a William Blake beyond sight, a winging, ringing, singing bird in word’s flight. But not to possess; only to confess we are lovingly, inquisitively, gratefully, blind.

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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces

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