Tessellate
“Tessellate”
on the surface
it’s easy to see
we tessellate
inadvertent
decorative ostentatious
flirtatious lives taking risks
with the other sides
planned strategic functional
quantity rich quality lacking
Human
our words our ways
opposites
like magnets attract, it all fits
we think it doesn’t, yet
from the beginning of time
it has been like this
adam and eve
right and wrong
black and white
scales,
like severed lizard tails grow
and overtake – the sweet taste
of those red apples
thin skin cuts deep, yet,
like a poet,
we keep imagining
our large and small stories,
inside us the music of life
keeps beating like a dirge drum
the distant beat
nearing, closing in,
a promised requiem;
opposites
some of us give in,
rocks in pockets we
dive full throttle in
some of us,
rise from the great depths
we never give in
underneath
the weight of scales,
a little light slides in
our lives morph to change
the inescapable
the karmic repeat;
like music scales
we sync together like a symphony
humming reptilian in our circadian dreams
our tales rattling
like puzzle pieces,
flight or fight again
is setting in upon us,
we’re bit,
the poison takes,
we are overcome
in our words and deeds
we succumb, to some
Milkwood good gentle night
some find a way to right it
we write new prescriptions
for antidotes, like a drug
we take it all in
the meaning of “It” all
we are all pre-determined
we are arranged into place
to meet the already unknown
in each the other;
in each the other
we want that - that,
which we do not possess -
it’s a catch-22;
mere unforseen adjustments,
the primary puppet-master
considers us secondary
the peacock tails,
like fables,
are regrown;
without gaps?
oh there are gaps
you state,
clear cut
that suck you back in
like a black hole
it’s a necessary sin,
the transfiguring -
but in the grand review,
still everything fits,
perfectly and absurd
the universe
hears
everything
and it responds
gaps, or no gaps
and swallows us all back in
holy unwhole
like we are two
dimensional nothings
openings and closings
like origami puzzles dancing
exploding and imploding
shredding confetti,
a marriage of sorts
something to chew on,
and spit out,
papier-mâché,
we are all looking
for ourselves -
each piece of us is found
in the opposite of ourselves puzzle
the majority,
to be arranged
neatly back into place
like a torn photograph
with different people
matrixed in time and place -
not that simple;
hidden in the abstract
we are priceless
bent works of art
unable to be forged
to exist forever man-made
in our counterfeit lives -
there is still some time -
we are still in kindegarten,
we can see patterns forming
through the old-soul eyes of a child
that take us away from the norm,
the expected maturity
the constraining boundaries;
we are part of a great myth
that finds amusement and succour
in our existence, it is ever-watching
our fragile selves
holding the signed contracts
somewhere imprinted deep within
we are consistent
in our openings
and foldings
breathing out and in
breathing out and in
breathing in and out ...
just as in a game of cards
the origami of our
many sided vessels
clearly seen
in a brief moment
for what we truly are,
our days are each numbered
we are all each numbered,
eventually the roulette wheel stops
on past tense, read,
Black Jack 21
we fold,
we cave in
our souls turn our face upwards
to the universe of all things
It hears everything,
all seeing I that It is
and It throws Its bowling balls
and we, its pins, stand sentry
patient and impatient collectables
watching others
trying to learn
from their experience
waiting our turn,
some nervous
some begging
to be scooped up,
ushered in, and yet,
on grand review
one piercing truth -
the World
never stops for us;
on another level,
the World’s heart beat
escalates
The World
continues to spin
Candide Diderot. ‘25
inque tuo sedisti, Sisyphe, saxo
"and you sat, Sisyphus, on your rock"
"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
(Excerpt: "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night"/Dylan Thomas)
Copyright © Candide Diderot | Year Posted 2025
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