Mystery

Mystery Art should be mysterious. Not “arts.” Things produced accidentally like a fart is not art. The other day my cat farted, strangely enough it made him funnier and lovelier. For animals it is another matter. Poetry is mystery. A good poem should make you “feel” good about yourself, the world all around. Never compromise your fine taste in art, in mystery. 99% of what we “produce” is crap. Yes, crap! No matter how much they cost you to labor, to sweat, to cheat and lie, the “reward” is mostly made of crap. Think about it. There is the lower kind has only the appetite for crap. Eventually they become crap themselves. They develop a crappy taste in things and non-things. Love should be a mystery. But they make humans animal-like: totally deprive the human eye and mind of imagination. All laid bare, breathing corpses with empty eyes. They call if life, or survive. Sadness comes from crap. We have the crappy leaders of the world. We have the more crappy followers in all the herds. Beauty is mystery for we can never agree on what it is. Our seeing is humanly partial. Maybe that is why we were given the gift to write. Poetry means to be “alone.” Not “alone” as to go to the moon. No. To be able to think alone with your own head. To see with new eyes of your own each day. Never waste your time with the crappy world. Not worth it. Time is mystery. Its own making our own being. Many things to choose. But you’ll own nothing. Nothing. There is no mystery about that. :: z.z. 2005