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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476746" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Living On The Cutting Edge Of The Lunar Waste</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Living on the cutting edge of the lunar waste <br>I made of my last moonrise. A truce <br>with underwhelming circumstances for awhile, <br>no apparent pitfalls on a Saturday night in Perth, <br>too cold for snakes, and the leaves playing their cards<br>close to earth and the air a knife at your throat, <br>I can remember when I tried harder to exist, <br>and it's still a holy war every day just to subsist<br>and not let it scar your spirit into being cauterized <br>like a bad tattoo of the moon you had effaced, <br>but tonight I seek the ease of a solitude older than humans<br>down in the wetlands of the Tay River just off <br>Sunset Boulevard before you cross the first bridge. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Waist high in the broken antennae of the brittle grass <br>yellow as the fossils in a graveyard <br>of green praying mantes, decultified romantics, <br>I pad the skull of rock I usually sit on like a prophetic throne <br>with the old manuscripts of fallen maple leaves, <br>recalling lines from poems like lyrical snippets of chromosomes <br>I'd written many years ago to adapt my heart <br>to the changes it had to go through to recast <br>the cannon it was into the life of a shapeshifting bell <br>with the pulse of a nightbird lamenting the dead<br>instead of a twenty-one gun salute like a firing squad <br>aimed at the stars. Death is the saddest loss of discipline<br>the spirit will ever be called upon to master in order to survive.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was sitting here one night, staring into the eye socket <br>bored into the albino nugget of a crow's skull, <br>the boney harps of its wings torn off their hinges <br>like gates that weren't strong enough to keep something out, <br>as the black flight feathers of a long eclipse slowly passed<br>across my eyes, that I realized, dead or alive, <br>existence is an interactive creative medium that doesn't care<br>whether you live it like a seance or an exorcism<br>and there are untold ages of the shining left <br>even in the oldest ashes of a star strewn on the path <br>of these long nocturnal firewalks through the mind<br>and that hello and farewell were the two wings <br>of the same waterbird, beating in unison<br>that empowered it to fly like a phoenix of imagination <br>out of an aviary of urns of its past lives<br>that might not sing for awhile but never lose their voice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cultivate the kind of spirit that can sing to you in the silence<br>when you're down, about the beauty of just being here <br>to live it, though you don't want to hear it, <br>you want to drown in your sorrow like a bell<br>but somehow the sound of life cuts through you <br>like a lunar blade with a growing edge<br>through wounded water and you can't help but wonder <br>what your ghost would give just to be here again <br>if only one more time, to resonate with the pain <br>like a back up singer to the universe, <br>who knows all the loneliest lyrics by heart<br>like a waterbird out on the river late at night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If only to hit one perfect note of sadness, one tine<br>of separation and suffering like a phantom waterlily<br>adding its shining to the light like the art <br>of knowing how to paint starmaps on your tears<br>indelibly on water for light years to come <br>to let people know you were once here, <br>you listened as they will by the side <br>of this river of life to the same songs, hurt and alone, <br>as they must if they want to step out of the chorus <br>and sing solo through their tears in their own voice<br>before they're gone to a hundred billion stars <br>that are listening to the same echo <br>being whispered in their ears like the fires of life <br>carried away by the desire to live on <br>like the empty lifeboat of a song full of moonlight<br>drifting down river to an ocean of awareness <br>where the gateways of the crow are refeathered <br>like the exit and entrance of an eclipse of wings<br>still keeping time to the picture-music that shines <br>like a new moonrise in the voice of a mindstream that sings<br>its way through the woods at night alone like a wild grape vine <br>sustaining the tears of its spiritual high notes until they turn <br>into the euphoric lunacy of a poetic wine aged in an earthly urn.</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=476746" data-title="Living On The Cutting Edge Of The Lunar Waste de Patrick White" data-description="Living on the cutting edge of the lunar waste 
I made of my last moonrise. A truce 
with underwhelming circumstances for awhile, 
no apparent pitfalls on a Saturday night in Perth, 
too cold for snakes, and the leaves playing their cards
close to ..."></div>
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