Act-Poem: Walt Whitman Meets Mother Ann

Act-Poem:
Walt Whitman Meets Mother Ann

Act-poems of the eyes.
What are they?
I think Whitman meant
them as the raw physical forces
from the world
entering the eyes
as spectra
of sight
and sound
and taste
and smell
and touch
translated into meaning–
word-acts,
poems.
Act-poems
are personal bubbles of reality,
pocket universes we cast
with our own minds
through our senses
and all the spaces between.
Of the constraints
built into
these spaces
nothing much can be said.
Certainly,
no conclusions can be conjured
from these fluxes
Except
that change is as the speed of light,
constant,
and we have all evolved
to sense what the liminal
between can yield,
ambiguously,
without reality.
We must be satisfied
by these act-poems
our senses foist.

Mother Ann exhorts Walt Whitman to work,
“There is no dirt in heaven.”
This dirt is the yield
of all the spaces
between the world
and our minds,
Just dust burning,
thin,
weak,
faltering
bonfires,
flares,
phosphor tracings,
act-poems.
And then she whispers to explain,
“Every force evolves a form.”

 

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