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Proverbs Of A Mountain Man
On The Water's Skin by Olef Ransom Saulles - [821 words]
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Proverbs Of A Mountain Man
Olef Ransom Saulles
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (19)
Americas Burning, Excerpt. (Poetry) From a longer, unfinished poem. [239 words]
An American Summer (Genres) - [7,002 words]
Being (Poetry) Poem [124 words]
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I Am My Own Greatest Enemy. (Poetry) - [16 words]
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I Had No Idea Misery Compounded (Poetry) - [161 words]
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Jkpayson (Poetry) - [53 words]
Karen . . . (Poetry) - [85 words]
Laid Heavy In The Suicide Chair (Poetry) - [35 words]
My Blood Spills Out. (Poetry) - [80 words]
On The Water's Skin (Genres) - [821 words]
Poek (Genres) - [1,307 words]
Poem Thread (Poetry) - [110 words]
Sonnet (Poetry) - [81 words]
Proverbs Of A Mountain Man
Olef Ransom Saulles
I sit with tempered countenance, knowing ‘to be’ remains to be.
While a transient, I define the meaning of pursuit; suffering the full weight of decisions made by me, while assaying the talents with which I am embroiled.
Bold, and then declarative, becomes the only choice worthy of an author’s generosity before crumbling to convention or being led at the midnight hour by routine.
Of great value for the writer: The stirring proportions of words for potential multi-dimensionality within the text.
The desk functions as a metaphor of sedentariness, an important quality for construction, not necessarily creativity.
I become a ‘writer’ - I am hired to generate text.
This happens, soon after the first job: I think, ‘When you have no responsibilities nothing gets done. Start to work for another’s end and your personal goals balloon.’
Therein lies the dilemma for me while I watch other people dissipate into invisibility behind opaque forms, obligating my imagination to resolve contradictions, but often arriving to love the memory of some shape whose order has long been exhausted.
The burden of patriotism demands freedom from work but labor defeats idleness.
The upright man cleaves to autonomy.
The stones I lay, leading to my door, must be slippery with intent - I cannot allow our visits to serialize.
When a master speaks, have confidence in the authority you maintain over your own ideas; Darwinism will protect the rest of us.
If you are perennially sophomoric stay far away lest you agitate me on the one day I quit with morality.
The hunt for character kills time with the blade of assumption.
Rigor, order and discipline may clot content.
Above all else, stay gold, undaunted ponies.
The tongue of the other may be a corrosive agent.
A sextillion jaws gnawed the bone. When the scraps were pitched the people cooed.
In youth the hard dying ritual of summer gives time, before ensuing crimes: school, work, and we spend it destroying our authenticity with enthusiasm.
Conditioning, propaganda, laboring, expiration - being, becomes progressively stranger with each year as opaque layers rubbed off provide greater absorption of perception, though I am privy to no truths.
Gather bread in the morning after waking but not showered, and the world stiffens into routine.
Johnny Appleseed is a dreamer.
He has tousled hair, like one who is manic, and his eyes often stray towards invisible pleasures. The impulses push him, wildly in-favor of leaving, toward dropping his baggage and running, but he remains afraid. So he sits on some proverbial beach and watches passing suns set while dreaming, thick, rich and kitsch, dreams; and gritting his teeth succumbs to fear.
When I worked at a dairy farm I fixed my perspective on its wholesomeness. I cared for the animals and, although I eat meat, I never saw in that place, the animal in us, meticulously conducting them towards the slaughter; red rivers and chunks of black coagulating on sterile concrete.
We raise and consume all bounty slowly to its end.
Tomorrow capitalism may take precedence over you.
I lick my chops over a savory loin, rare and well seasoned, in turn I am prey for the gold, and water.
Am I only the reflection of light or is there more?
A fool smells death and thinks all is for nothing. A wise being knows much is nothing.
Long lines defeat the spirit.
Traffic blunts your edge.
Bureaucracy is a homicidal maniac that people treat as family, ‘we don’t like them, but we have to love them.’
Bullshit. Kill it, like we kill other murderers.
Waters, spread like cold, thick icing over the land, tease the imagination into primality.
How could this world be mine, since it is not yours?
Some invisible thing destroys me, but what?
Coming down from the -
Mountains of ideas pile up.
I hear we are awash in newness,
that liberty bathes us in fine scents.
I think I’ll enjoy a bath today; the stink is all over me.
I try to read before dipping my hands in the temperate water.
The yellow tile, sun-dulled, and blue transparency of the shower curtain reflect affectations from the waters skin.
My eyes repeat the last line read, the sentence spun as a log stuck by the prideful logger.
- Stalemate -
I place the book on the toilet’s lid and join my hands to the bathwater.
The relaxed liquid absorbs me, gravity cedes and I ease –
forgetting to be a man destroyed by the earth’s mass.
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© 2001 Olef Ransom Saulles
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