This is not a haiku travelogue.

A past notebook entry for a finished poem.
From March 16: Perhaps I should— what I mean is, before working on the current, untitled piece, an older idea could be formulated better— an intentional rambling about Discordia, chaos. Providing a pattern to a pattern-less concept. The structure exists within the fragmented sentences I generated previously— I see the full finished poem in my head, the ideal-shadow. Flickering as underwater.

From out of order comes disorder.
Out of disorder appears order.

Two elderly sisters bickering
as they walk along the beach.

Ebb and flow. Left to right.
Silence or {illegible text: conversation? –conundism?}

But yes. Couplets. Perhaps rhyming. Without a pattern however. As the surface of my desk. Controlled chaos. Layers of past ideas, scraps of notebook paper or the occasional napkin. A basic extended metaphor for a complex notion.
•This is not a haiku travelogue. Therefore, the daily pace cuts back on plausible epiphanies. The change of landscape is rare. Ritualistic. Routine. Even paced. Whereas out boy changes daily. He fills up, overnight, a plump loaf of sweet bread. He transpositions quickly between the years. Always moving towards a positive.

•88/ In Greek, the word “pan” translates to “all”— so therefore, the little goat-goad playing his reeds becomes something greater, something more than just a representation of fertility for the herd, more than that sudden anxiety on the path through the woods when you pause midway and realize you are lost, that panic rising within, based off the common root, the brainstem of past ancestors duplicated overtime, repetition of every star witnessed, every moon rise, every solar eclipse smokey-blue overhead— their every whispered prayers, all of them collected in your subconscious, dancing to the woody scales of Pan’s pursed lips.
•