Snapshots

But like our obsessions our dreams do reappear, fueled by chance and circumstance, like the essentials of Spontaneous Prose, that are captured in random words and abstract pictures. Finally he wakes up in a dream to pen down his thoughts; white noise follows streams of consciousness, groping in the darkness, retracing Freud, forming patterns out of randomness. His heartbeat screeches to a halt but the world around chugs forward in constant motion. Words give way to snapshots as he identifies the background, the repetitive sunrise to sunset, that drives the focal length to infinity, the elements in constant motion; working together, widening the depth of focus. He identifies the background and then waits for the subject to find its place; those random words and abstract pictures which in continuum form a poem. And it’s always poetry that begets poetry. There is no other way.

But people say that the poetry never lasts, and they are right. Except of course it does.