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Michael Clark
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Michael J. Clark was born and raised in Sinclair, Wyoming. He is a poet, novelist, artist, historian, and market analyst. His fine arts portfolio can be found at the following address: His writing portfolio can be found at:... More
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  • Poetry: From "Musings Of A Soiled And Inveterate Crone" 0 comments
    Feb 10, 2014 8:01 AM



    Musings of A Soiled and Inveterate Crone



    I can walk in the land where nothing is known,

    And, knowing nothing,

    I can thrive, being equally poor and rich,

    Equally poetic and filled with knowledge of practical, scientific things;

    For all is illusion;

    Nothing is really known;

    So nothing known is really true.

    There is no hierarchy of minute things,

    Or knowledges possessed by pawns.

    The basic truth is the foreknowledge of great lore.

    Administering the provocative nature of luck,

    And making it work for thee, small child of luck,

    Small forefather of immense dimension negotiated to scale.

    The image is done.

    Calories appear, repeat, become something more;

    Heat transforming itself into shape, into body,

    Into moving form, into complexity.

    Mars emerging from out of Saturn, again;

    Mercury motioning Chastity that it is time to rise.

    Chastity - Lily Chastity - choosing to hesitate.

    I walk.

    Everything is undone by walking.

    Talk is transfixed when walking.

    Everything falls:

    Everything unneeded,

    Everything false.

    From Noon to Midnight all of Nature empties out.

    Walking cures paralysis.

    Walking heals insomnia.

    Walking fixes feet to the jungle,

    To asphalt asphyxiating mongoloid misjudgments.

    Walking alleviates boredom by re-awakening primeval cadenzas:

    Fight; or flight.

    Embrace the warrior's death; or prepare to run.

    It is a simple matter of working energy down from the crown,

    Into the paradoxes of the footpath.

    A choice between this and that: a clandestined descent

    Down the Tree of Arbitration, to the soil.

    The seed inside the soiled fruit,

    Descends in its dun-marked state,

    From the air to the earth to the water to the womb.

    December will not be kind.

    The god of December will be rude and rigorous and reptilian:

    But he will be teaching the seed its first lesson

    In the Art of Rebirth.

    Vulcan: fashion for this boy a sword -

    Not an s-word, for that comes next,

    Only after he finds his God

    And slays the grim Black Dragon

    And carries his severed head back into the kingdom.

    This comes first.

    And movement, continual, a scent brought on, a sound,

    Death passing in the wind,

    Passing away, furious and wind-driven,

    Down toward the River,

    Down into the bruised plain,

    Where He - Death -- will kill tiny fragments of being

    In a lament on life's uncopious rudeness toward Him, the Great Death,

    For which he must have sufferance.

    I walk when I am waking from something rough

    And when I am looking for something coaxial

    And mitigated by callous happenstance.

    Lily: you became callous happenstance.

    Michael J. Clark

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