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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476641" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Like The Feel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots. <br>I like the feel of breathing in joy like oxygen, <br>of moving from one small joy to another <br>without pomp or pageantry<br>like the constellation of a black swan <br>on a midnight mindstream<br>drifting through the small torches of the stars<br>that won't go out in any kind of water.<br> <br>And I don't know why I'm wounded <br>deeper than tears by joy <br>whenever I witness any undoubted example <br>of human excellence<br>and penumbrally share in the triumph<br>remembering how truly astonishing <br>a human being can be<br>when compassion and insight <br>are the fruit and roots of the tree. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So much in the world I abhor, <br>horrors and sorrows and atrocities <br>that violate the elemental dignity of life <br>as it expresses itself in a human so deeply <br>even the silence cuts out its tongue<br>as an offence against <br>the unspeakable decency of the darkest abyss<br>when it stands before evil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a golden fish in a polluted stream<br>slurried by a nuclear reactor <br>into a cancerous elixir <br>I have ingested every toxic meme <br>of a sick society in a feverish dream<br>and I cannot help but think and feel and live <br>whatever's written on the water<br>to soil the stars<br>that thought they were out of reach <br>and make manic depressives <br>of the waves that spoil the beach.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A child of my times, the Zeitgeist, the Holy Ghost, <br>and the jinn at every well <br>like the forbidden fires of holy explosives<br>wrapped in folds of smoke, <br>I see through the glass darkly <br>like everyone else <br>who paints the eye of their telescope <br>with the shepherd moons <br>of despair and hope<br>and reports their observations as the truth<br>to whomever might be listening.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I can humble the night with my darkness <br>when the light goes out<br>and I have fought for years <br>with the child that I am <br>not to feel guilty or vulnerable <br>whenever I was taken unawares <br>by some happiness<br>that spilled over the rim of the black hole <br>that indelibly kept my cup full.<br> <br>Now I rejoice in the emptiness of things <br>as useless as rocks and people <br>and feel a great tenderness for anyone <br>who needs to feel anything more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like the way your gate is hanging by a hinge. <br>I like the dead bee on the pyre <br>of the late-blooming fire<br>that consumes it like a last kiss. <br>I like the way my portrait's turned toward the wall <br>like a delinquent outside the principal's office <br>listening for footsteps down the long, empty hall.<br> <br>Lightning in the lighthouse <br>or fireflies on the moon <br>I like the way my Zippo snaps shut <br>like the beak of a turtle at the feather of the flame<br>it rose like an ancient moon from the muddy depths<br>to pull under. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I find joy in the slightest, <br>in the cast away and the spurned, <br>in the tiny birds that have learned<br>to glean the dragonflies <br>off the car radiators<br>and the way people like to be found <br>like hubcaps at the side of the road <br>holding up a mirror to the beauty <br>of the wild irises <br>like a new logo <br>they hope will catch on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you haven't been saved from anything <br>there isn't much left to save you from <br>or any point in trying <br>to save the ashes from the fire<br>after everything's gone up in smoke<br>so why ox yourself<br>to the unbearable yoke of a cross <br>trying to grind bread out of starwheat <br>when the children you labour to save like seed<br>have already died for the night<br>with nothing to eat? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who needs to turn themselves into a broom <br>when they've drunk their mirages dry <br>to sweep the deserts off the stairs<br>of an afterlife in an empty asylum<br>that talks to itself like the moon? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't care what kind of bars <br>silver, gold, iron or bone, <br>spiritual or corruptly marrowed<br>by the tainted terrestrial <br>you want to put on the window<br>to keep the stars out like thieves at the gate, <br>I'm already in. <br>And you're way too late.<br> <br>I like to live my life <br>as if I were getting away with something. <br>I like being weeded out like a key <br>to a door that time forgot to close <br>like the coffin lid of the nightwatchman<br>who kept an eye on things like a flashlight<br>looking for his flashlight, <br>his mind for his mind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like being less and less of me <br>like a rogue sunset that sheds its roses <br>like a watercolour of its eyes in the void<br>to see more clearly into the emptiness <br>there's nothing to be in this nothingness<br>that isn't a last lifeboat without oars<br>and no one in it to rescue<br>jumping ship in a turbulent dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Illusory cures for illusory diseases.<br>And once you're restored to clarity <br>does it really matter <br>what the medicine means? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like the tear in my wounded blue jeans.<br>I like the autumn dyes that set your hair on fire <br>like the Gatineau Hills<br>risking everything <br>as you squander your leaves like rain-cheques <br>in the overly salubrious poker-faced casinos of Quebec.<br>I like the day I was let out of school <br>with eternity for a recess.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why spend your life <br>panning your own mindstream <br>for the fool's gold of the iron pyrite rule: <br>Do unto others before they do unto you, <br>when you know as well as Wall Street<br>things aren't what they seem? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look how an apple tree lives. <br>It gives. And it thrives<br>by just expressing itself <br>like a bouquet in the hand of a bride <br>that walks like a bridge to the altar <br>and marries herself in her own eyes <br>to the earth she's rooted in<br>holding her green arms up <br>to the orchards of the Hesperides<br>that blossom among the stars<br>like holy ancestors.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like the way the comets stray <br>like hair across her face<br>and the way she twists her mouth <br>like driftwood in the sun <br>to blow them away.<br>And I like the blaze <br>of the supernovae of enlightenment <br>who give it all back to the night <br>like a blood transfusion, <br>a hemorrhage of light, <br>and even more, <br>these small illuminations <br>that arrive through the night and day <br>like anonymous stars and flowers <br>beside a death bed in a private room<br>where only the dying know what to say.<br> <br>Stars above the mountain.<br>Flowers in the valley. <br>I like the way the moon's punked out in the alley <br>between the church and the funeral home.<br>I like the way I refuse to assume I know where I'm going<br>like a newly-hatched garden snake in the spring <br>or a stream setting out on its own <br>with nothing for a creekbed<br>but its own flowing<br>and how I always catch myself like a fish <br>rising to the hook and allure of a new direction<br>as if that were the truth north of not having one.<br> <br>But let the goldfish nibble at the moon as they will <br>and swim through the tops of the trees <br>even as these fire-birds are flying through my roots.<br>I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots.<br>I like playing the fool with my own molecules<br>as if I were madder than plutonium<br>at having to break my balls like a kick in the nuts <br>with my own pool cue <br>everytime I give the game away<br>hoping somehow that will make me<br>as sane as lead in the table of things.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see hell. I live in hell. I breathe hell. <br>And this pillar of I enshrines and embodies it<br>like the corpse of a murdered river <br>flowing through darkness <br>without any recourse or redemption <br>for its suffering.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No elixir. No grail. No lapis philosophorum. <br>No celestial gold to climb the ladders of fire <br>out of the dungeons of hydrogen <br>or missing link that breaks the chains <br>of the slaves in the hold<br>that labour in vain to endure.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Life isn't fair or unfair. <br>Pure or compounded.<br>Civilized or savage. <br>Eternal or brief.<br>Loving or hateful <br>nor all of these together.<br>The sky isn't just <br>the daily news of the weather <br>and the sea isn't just <br>the tragic rage of co-conspirators<br>doing their worst to fall on their own swords<br>as if they could be turned <br>like waves against one another<br>and though it is immaculately kind of us to say so<br>the earth really isn't our mother<br>if you go back far enough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The earth is more of a nurse these days<br>trying to suckle <br>a hydra-headed wound <br>in a nightshift emergency ward <br>at the full moon<br>with plastic udders of blood<br>hanging from a cruclfix on wheels.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For every demon that jumps from heaven <br>an angel rises from hell<br>and I like the way <br>I'm learning to fall toward paradise<br>without a parachute<br>like a one-winged samara trying to angel on<br>with these seeds of loaded dice<br>riding the luck of the wind<br>like a wounded albatross <br>looking for new ground<br>at the foot of an empty cross.<br>As much has been gained as was lost.<br> <br>I like the way time weaves the manes <br>of the sheepish dandelions <br>into the emergency ghosts <br>of a thousand scattered parachutes.<br>I like the way every conclusion about life <br>rights itself with its opposite <br>like a compass or a keel<br>and there are addictions <br>so intensely beyond the obvious dark mirrors<br>and shared needles of true north<br>trying to snort the stars<br>to light up the room like a legend<br>on a neon movie marquee, <br>unschooled states of mind <br>so powerfully clear and whole<br>your being is shot up like a tree in the lightning <br>that God wants to use for a voice-box<br>so that the tree is known by its fruits, <br>the taste of its words, <br>the joy of its birds, <br>the blossom of the moon on the dead branch<br>the butterfly on the green<br>like the whole notes and stops on the flute <br>of a snake-charmer<br>collaborating with the muse of a cobra <br>on a new song<br>two minutes long with a hook.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I like the way life goes on in the dark<br>beyond the painted eyelids of the billboards<br>running for re-election as a theme park<br>to improve the fibre-optics of their umbilical cords.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even as the truth turns out <br>to be more of a lock than a key<br>that can be turned in your mouth like a word <br>to set you free of yourself <br>like a long thought-chain <br>that plugs the world into your navel; <br>and beauty is a pimped-out carnival <br>of surgical exaggerations and defects<br>that wear the look of lost luggage<br>under the sagging circus tents<br>that taxi down the runways of the rejects; <br>and the evil that is done in the world <br>cloaks the oceanic eye of awareness <br>with the cataract of an oilslick<br>that giftwraps everyone like water <br>in the same starless snake-skin<br>they tattoo their corporate logos on<br>like a new translation of the Rosetta Stone<br>in the demotic tongues <br>of the illiterate mobs of PsychoBabylon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even in this deepest eclipse of hell <br>that swallows us whole<br>like the eggs of the moon in a nest <br>and is running out of eyes to darken, <br>even here there are still small lighthouses of joy<br>that shine through the cracked skulls of these coasts <br>and haloes of fireflies <br>that still iris the eyes of the black holes<br>that are too deep for anyone to put down roots <br>or go witching for water with lightning<br>screwed into the eyesockets <br>of their spineless lightbulbs <br>playing peek-a-boo <br>in their see-through birthday suits.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let evil offend or amend its own statutes. <br>I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">PATRICK WHITE</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476641" data-title="I Like The Feel de Patrick White" data-description="I like the feel of the new heels on my cowboy boots. 
I like the feel of breathing in joy like oxygen, 
of moving from one small joy to another 
without pomp or pageantry
like the constellation of a black swan 
on a midnight mindstream
drifting th..."></div>
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