Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Poems, Think. Think, Poems, Thoughts.

Not thinking is not a crime, and no one doesn't think. No one you know does not think and you think thinkingly or not. We are all alike this way, alike and true and free. Free in being, in thinking.

Thinking is not evinced (made evidential; trace leaving; culpable; guilty; condemned)  in the thought thought but in the thinking thought. The product is not necessarily even the result of the process because many oh so many other processes are involved before we have a product that we can agree is a product. A product of what? Exactly.

When we argue - and even agreements are a kind of argument - we point to thinking, thinkingly or not, not to varying degrees so much but in the way we point to preferred sections of a color spectrum. Do you think this way? You may as well have been a robin laying speckled eggs.

Because we argue or die tryingly we continue to speak as if thought were, well, not a solution, but a gateway or key to solutions. I know people so beholden to thought that they have never had children. I know children whose thoughts are to their parents' thoughts what Pavarotti's voice was to when his parents would argue. No one can stand anything without taking time to think about it and this is what matters when we talk about freedom.

At some point, you will want to put aside mere facts and do some thinking. You will want to wrap up your facts in a little blanket you fashioned from an old flannel pillowcase and, humming, lay them to sleep, then tip-toe out and away to do some thinking while the night is still young.

I do not know if you want to consider anything. That seems pointless at times like these. I do not mean time in the political sense but the stereoscopic sense, where the colors blend to reinforce and challenge each other. Time in the Sam Francis or Helen Frankenthaler sense, but you can think what you like.

Every thought will find its way.
Every thought is a nightmare.
The thought not thought is the life not lived.
Thinking rearranges the keys.

In my mind, we meet and are happy simply to meet. Everything is blank thereafter. You can't expect sense where thinking is involved, and even for those thoughts that tend toward sense, you will be no wiser than when you started out. Who is the man who does not think, or the thought that cannot feel? We were original once. Everything else is like starting out with a thought.