Higher

Garbage piled high in the streets

In front of Cafés and Bistrots

Sometimes it seems not as a poem but of a poem

I’m walking through it for truth

For in poems, there’s an author

And subjects can be mere objects.

I truly feel something ticking beside the author’s soul.

Not time.  Beyond the concept of time.

-Beyond words-

Organic and real.

Crawling through black skies

And it being its own light

Buzzing in blades of green grass

Inside city potholes

Splashing those idiots who don’t know

But, think they know.  And, limit those who don’t care

Don’t care what they think at all

Now laws, no limits – just love gone higher

Only love will break the fall.

Books are paths

But so are smiles.  A look. A kiss.  

The way she walks in a room w/ no walls

I’m the author of my poem

Gone higher

Conscious of my choices

Right or left.  Up and down.

Side to side.  At rest.  Go –

Is why she stopped.

It’s something too obvious.

Unlike Macchu Picchu

A rebuke at everything

Or just the one thing

That makes me go –

Away from others

But not her

Her voice races through

Electric diamond wires

Her thoughts locate me

A rose with its thorns

I’ve been cut by beauty itself

Unveiling truth

The curiosity of it

How deep would they be

How deep would they go.

Words are paths

My doors are cleansed

Night and day

Light or dark

It’s meaningless

Yet everything to be

John Alan Conte` JR

Winter/Spring 2003