Franklyn Monk

I dig the concept of the spiritual wilderness that I’ve begun exploring.

The Wilderness has been referred to as desolation, and loss, and a parallel world system. It’s night. It’s a void. It’s the abode of the poet monk.

The Wilderness is a place that’s traveled through, or to. It seems to be lifeless, or dying. Is that the Wilderness: weakening, dying? Either weakening or dying or searching, there’s always something inging.

I dig the concept of Wilderness. Of loosing. Of crying desolation a void

A void exploded within me long ago, if I were romantic I’d say from my heart. But I’m more pragmatic than that, what exploded was the very fabric of reality, of space time, a collapse back into unbeing, nothingness, hopeless abandoned babe in the Wilderness struggling against the primal forces that govern existence. New born innocence in a corrupted laboratory, the experiment improperly powered down.

Gripping the shredded fabric that was once a heart and soul and ember. It was love love the strongest wiped clean in an instance of madness abrupt uncertain screaming accepting no sacrifice below the greatest sacrifice.

The Wilderness sprung from there, from that. It’s an interesting place to be, this dead zone. But maybe not dead so much as alien, there’s life here. Wolves and bobcats and on one road glowing eyes of green and yellow whiz by the headlights of a poet monk searching and seeking or running, discovering. There’s life, but vacant of kind, vacant of lot or clan. There’s enough rabbits to keep you entertained but vacant of people or person really, just the one.