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White Absence
by David Sparenberg
2013-09-22 11:08:13
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Feel something.  Look over here.  I have broken my head against the walls of hereditary foolishness.  I have battered my fists and fingers on cold stones of our existentiated guilt.  Lips are bruises, with blood welts, and I have laid waste my own voice.  Try as I may, I cannot reach you.

Now one of us is stranded on a desert island, while the other is lost at sea.  Can hunger be satisfied by eating the catacombs of sand?  Can thirst be quenched—a burning thirst in throat and belly—by drinking down the salty origins and terminus of dying fishes?

One of us is without the shelter of a single surviving tree. The other approaches death and is rootless.

Once there were memories; once a boat and camaraderie.  Of late, the sky rains only ashes.  Your ears are filled with thorns; my eyes are ravaged by the talons of darkness.

Try as I may, I cannot reach you.  Even if I do, it is already concluded to be pointless.  The cause is lost and nowhere does a miracle find us. 

Still, accusatively and projecting anger, you assail me, “If you were a hero, with a calling, you would save us.”But the heroes have dug their own graves.  Desperately and bleak before silence, I try to answer, “If you were awake, you would already be on the path to salvation and have raised aloft a torch to light the way.”

Does lightning strike against emptiness? Is thunder felt in skeletons of the dead?

Is this the monkey’s business—that the monkey must overleap itself?  It is surely grand to be told that everything about us is in need of change.  Yet deep down are serpents of resistence.  Best then not to talk at all!  Better not to gnash one’s teeth.

See: how bitterly the games of boredom, in white absence of the soul!

Possibly it remains to feel loneliness, despite incessant traffic, and to imagine something stirring, like a whimper, even in the constant presence of pretentious and invasive voices.

Yet try as I may, I cannot fully turn myself inside out to show you the streets of power or ancestral monuments to incarcerating secrets.

David Sparenberg
19 September 2013


RD Laing used to ask, “How often are you simply handed a cup of tea?” A Zen question! Or gifted 2 free eco ebooks? Just check HERE!  


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