To Taste

I am not a careful poet. In fact I find caring to much about punctuation during the writing freezes me up and I lose the vision. Today I was inspired by listening to Ryan Adams talk about the 15 albums he's written in the last 7 years. He defended his output and called everyone else lazy and afraid of their imagination. He claimed that we live in an era of art criticism that has forgotten how to create art. He claims that the critic kills art. There was something about what he said that resonated with the (almost forgotten) poet in me. I think I wrestle with two selves, the poet and the critic. The critic would not have me write, the poet lives only to write. Michael Winter wrote once about an artist who found the critic in him outgrew the poet. Yes. I know what you speak of young warrior. It is a tough thing to listen to the soul. To hear the rhythm of the cosmos in the solitude of your gray matter. So today, I turned the critic down low, and rolled a few of my favourite things around in my head - a song by Ryan Adams called Dancing Till the Stars go Blue, a Yoga pose called Dancing Shiva, the Eucharist, and Gregory of Nyssa's ontology.

Without Further Ado, Ladies and Gentlemen - To Taste


Amid cheerleaders and doomsayers
I stand, sand on my toes,
Warmed by the fire, waiting for the dance.
The great balance
Cupped hand before me,
Leg stretched out behind
Back arched
The muscles of my spirit invigorate
Suddenly my body begins to transform
Eternally transform, perpetually turning
Into the solar wind of time,
Perpetually reaching forward to the mosaic
Experience of the back side
The tail wind of

Nyssa would call this the pursuit of perfection
But what else do we have?
I’ve no taste for evil,
It just comes in cravings.

In weakness these holes spiral back through my
Substance and spew out my core
On the yellow road, I take steps
On the dolorosa, and move one foot
After another towards what?
I can not say,
Towards whom?
I shall never fully know,
But I will always have the promise of taste.

Take and eat,
These words haunt my Baptist
She cowers in the corner remembering all that is
And not knowing where to go, who to flee to…
Is it a question of groups, of feasting or pretending to feast?
Remembering a future time of great enjoyment.
There is an inescapable aspect to remembering
But,
We must eat to live, and I must eat more then symbols.

I’m hungry
hoc est corpus meum
Is me
Whoa, like Isaiah of old I feel trapped in lips unclean
Hopes with ends unforeseen
Not knowing where to step
Who to go to with time
Plans
Charity
Not knowing what charity I might have to give
What order lies in me to expel
Express
But a word lingers on my tongue

My mouth salivates for this word

The poetry of my life has been in neglect,
I have not found my epic, or perhaps I have been too involved in my epic, in my preparation for flight
That I have not found my myth.

Where do I go when I’m lonely?

Who do I call when I’m lost;
How can I lie right beside you peacefully, and
Watch the stars flow on and on,
Across a sky, some say has soured,
Some say will bust?
These are my questions,
My mystery at heart
That I worry myself about,
That I fear critics will take up,
This is my wordlessness that leaves me silent
As I tear through the fabric of time

Waiting for the dance.