Words peel away the fascia of creation
like a scalpel removing flesh-eating bacteria
to get to the bone which is clean and pure–
the marrow carrying the load of intent.
Fluttering in the belly
the novice and the master,
their souls under glass pumped
and crushed by the words of others.
But sometimes it is all form and technique
the intensity of a life neglected
by the narcisism of culture
and the smithing of self.
The seeing is a mirror, a feedback loop
of percpetion–I think therefore I am.
The own knowing is what is known
and seen and said, not done.
The critic is a cat, unconcerned
with the effects of the game on the prey.
The words are believed because we cannot trust
that what we see is true, limited
as we are by our own reflections.