the deconstruction as construct

[sweetwater]

in the becoming
morning and being
in the now that
always arrives on time

and never leaves
or disappears to pursue
other ventures

and where you are
in the syntax

presently seeking ...

searching
the instantaneous
and gratifying
moments of wonder

and creation

the wand and the moment
a reflection
in the making

and the making of an idea
and construct of self
efficacy

and there you are
as if you were alone
in the details of life
love and other paradigms
of a painted afternoon

for shadows and dark foreboding
a grotesque appreciation
of what seemed more of an indulgence
and an endless circular garden of relentless
chatter and moving figures

like rivers you step into twice
or the ship that is leaving the harbour
and you are not on it

the journey towards the dead can dance
the within of being and becoming

how it all slips away
even the fear and complexity
of rhymes in the schemata of things

how it goes on without you
how it seems to be that way
in a world so full of objects
and solipsist ideologies

soaring searchlights onto morrow
or what i intended to say or should have said
as marrow onto this

the paragraphs of bone and conjunctives
where there is always an extension
a continuation in the movement of things

like time or the emptiness
or thoughts that converge
in the now of here on this line

that emptiness has become and
not unlike you
it also changes

the sun also rises ...

but i am lying

or should i say it is you
that is at the end of the rainbow
or the beginning of a sonnet
long forgotten

for years that has passed between us
like strands of forgotten ideas and lost philosophies
lingering hopeless in the happenings of
the space we occupy

as a relative objectivism
that can't solve the subjective information
as if life could solve itself
or that death solves anything

as if 'control' itself the illusion
but to control the illusion

the construct of even this
or to let it end abruptly

inclusively ingracious to the inflections
of modern post construction

the construct is an illusion
and so are you so much like myself

in the de-constructive morning
i awake beside a river in the calm
cool face asking me for a kiss

and langston's apology

where you are but relative in
the seeming
and seeming endless seemingly
endless
night of soft kisses over distances

or just the invention of words
an imaginative beginning
to move

toward something more enduring
more gracious

and to feel myself again
to feel joy in being alive