Wings Of Desire Poem by Robert Ronnow

Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not
      starring Adam Sandler,
great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini,
      Children of Paradise, Ikiru, Open City.
This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing
      people thinking,

the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots,
      sadness and silliness,
silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one
      logical
lucid progression. Deep art.

I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something
      with hydroxyapatite
that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of
sweetness, an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or
      fallen angel

any form from which death might abstain or forego
      appetite.
Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my
      practice. Looking for solutions to the equations.
      Learning the changes then forgetting them.
The expressions emanating from mortal minds are
      broken stamens, sticky stigmas.

Striving for immortality,
some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don
      Quixote)
says he understands and it's alright.

I will read what he wrote and probably agree
but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts.
True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts.
      Unchanging and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass
      them on as heirlooms.

To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and
      unsharing electrons, disrobing
and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle
      twice. Did Wim
give each thought its own voice or use the same voice
      for all thoughts, every whim.