I don't remember much about the creation of this poem. It was a bit of a experiment about words and images. I like the strange Doug-ness, though. The rewrite was probably around 2007. Looking at it now (2025), I think I prefer the original. That happens.
People (a crowd, a shape of rain) Fall silent, then laugh. Again. Faces wear masks like pure hearts, Just sound, a rhythm's things: The calling, but what meaning? The nothing! So fleeting! They dance and lie with ancient sayings. They whisper, not comprehending Foolishness! The unrestrained Minds. Wait! Now, a fresh refrain! Oh, for love, for quaint favors, COME BEING! The crowd parts, finally fleeing.
People crowd, a shape of rain: Fall down, then laugh again. Merry beats and rhythms flee, Fears grip glassware strings. Splattered waywardness Backward glances through Storm clouds and pure hearts. Just the same scrape of pain, The calling, the meaning, The nothing. Come being! People die in ancient sayings. They whisper trickle down, and Foolishness, stark insane. My mind = a shade of rain. Emptiness: a fate of seeing. Quaint, the taste of being.