Sometimes a man will write a poem instead of killing himself. Or he’ll listen to the blues. Or fantasize the delights of the heaven he invented for himself. Escapism? Who cares? He is doing what his nature bids him.
Sometimes a man will do anything to avoid nonexistence. He’ll even imagine he is dead. He’ll give up poetry, he’ll destroy himself. He’ll go to his paradise, wherever it is. He’ll live. He may be sick, but he’ll live.
Sometimes a man stops believing he’s a man. He feels like a blob of something that has no name, form or description. Human describes only one aspect of it—yet also encompasses it totally. A sensing, sensuous entity that loves words for their ability to signal the life that distinguishes itself from death, yet senses something beyond words. Whatever it is, it fills the erotic night when intellect strips down and makes love with mystery. Where flesh is the mystery as well as the word or silence beyond it. Ecstasy of light and darkness combined, which annihilate him into pure being. He exists eternally—even now—and lives his finest moments as if he were a poet. Let us call him “the illuminated poet.” Illuminated even when darkness like a vampire drinks his essence.
Sometimes a man’s philosophy is nothing so much as an occasion for poetry. And poetry is more than words, more than images or wisdom or delight. Poetry is a sensation and what that sensation seems to point to. (Always seems since at this level of being certitude doesnt exist.) The indescribable absence of the describable; the yawning jaws of night. That stretch of existence conceived of as absence—yet look how much presence it has filled!