The Process Of Selection.... Poem by RIC BASTASA

on the other hand,
if everything is fiction, then what could possibly
be not?

the possibilities of words
they are not just in random picked by some foolish gods
and given a form
and the slightest idea connected to a certain
belief in
meaning

well, there will always be the justification of an experience
that something like this once happened but that the recollection is
not clear anymore

part bird, part lion, wings or hands,
did it have a horn, or a halo?
the images argue among themselves and
as a matter of compromise
the mind puts everything in a collage
a jigsaw puzzle
until a picture is formed
and from a distance you take a look at it

a little bit true and a little bit false
but still sending a message

something happened a long time ago
you fear remembering it
you abstract

take only those colors that you like
those words that please you
those faces that give you love
those hands that once caressed you

you throw away those that hurt
what is the use of keeping them?
unless you are the masochist god
the object of the furies
the numb flesh
the dead fly
the carcass, that dung, that scar.