I have been working, feeling, seeing in recent months the infinitesimal boundary between ourself and the sublime. And like Xeno's paradox, the oh-so-thin veneer DOES disappear. And then and only then do true poems come out.
In 1990 I had my first of three mental (schizoaffective) breakdowns (the other in 1991 and 1993) and signed myself into a mental hospital for what would turn out to be a long stay. Very confused and basically in the dark about everything that was going on (having been taken there by my brother and parents), I needed some footing to the Reality…
All the writing I have ever done, is just a means of wearing away that layer: being ever closer to the moment, the moment that does not end.
And if these poems are conduits to the sublime, then so is every man and every woman.
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