WELLSPRING OF CHANCE

Spoken word unsaid, unremittant, unspoken ineffable.

Said in sentence fossilizing language...curious language, the remnants of remains, silhouettes and shadows, glisten in the amber light...iron irony cast in the saddest gaze.

I am an ambient and sublime wandering, a discovering uncovering the might, of ambient hidden truths. He thinks for a moment to himself:

prolific and proletariat must share a common root, he thought...clenching the sun between his hands, that he stares at and manipulates spinning in his hands, he points to remind the light to leave and follow this direction, pointing to amniotic Eden.

In an armistice of fate and chance, his eyes delve into the rootwork of a garden, comingling with a certain flowing ambience, distention armours disavowal...he is at once symptom of the cloud's precipitous wait...light as a feather, cascading oceans. In a decade he thought all the clouds in the world must move at least an oceanic surface no shallower than three or four Olympic swimming pool's depths. He wished to know the collection of all details, formed of the panoply of possibilities, driven by the factual, he wished to know all of the facts of the world, to parade it in omniscient mastery, as if hubris has a home. There you have it he knows everything now about A world, a pebble a remnant, a decoy, a satellite.

In the equinoctial division of perfection and dissuasion, the limits of contention, drives the semantic drift into the harvest of divination. Life is a vessel beneath the flesh of time, sapping, tapping and robbing time, of it's pulse, it's the beaten path, the one wrought and fraught with challenge, under the fathoms, where the most courageous of tyrants fear to go. Purity of purpose under the layers, a sort of Salomaic river, beneath the dunes of time...under the sweat of the earth, under every dermitus and dendritus, of planetary regolith. He relishes the ambience of uncertainty, and from this persuasion, he amplifies the fastidiously heralded moment, and does his raindance. The last shaman Chases the sun, boiling in unquenched thirsts, along the dunes of time...in the monoculture of progress, beneath the wellspring of chance.

Poem and image © 2016 by Peter Kaleb Theodoropoulos aka Rockwell Wilder