I was
hunger, desperate to breathe, living near an edge—the ledge was violet, the
leap was lethal, with several in my arc. I thought it was pain to drive me. It
was spirit. It was misery in chains with a drive to survive. I asked on many
occasions—the name of the doctor, instead of the width of the mistake—upon a
harpsichord; earth to skies, skies to dirt, bone and fluids, dining on myths. Like
a woodwind, into seas, running or floating on water; the baptized castle, the
mansion weaving, so connected with lingering literature; like segue, like math,
like a crush on what one can never possess. It longs for the discovery, the
glare, nodding, nudging, moving, laughing, at deep pain, composing a manuscript—the
poetry in eyes, the feeling as it arose, the maniac of the rose. So far it was
passion, then Bethlehem, then Europe. A foolish man, to ingratiate with
anguish, to adore the feeling life was giving. Such melodica, such Aquila, or a
poem I meant to pass over. Saturn-Jupiter, the mixture, was it unlikely? To the
mud of the matter. Lost many in a blink of a biblic eye. Upon Sirius, upon a
mental planet, upon a foreign memory. I was soul into a dungeon—the odds aren’t
polite. I often ask myself, do people fall like the movies anymore? The answer
is, yes. So inelegant of me, much a roundtable in me, at the worktable
scribbling quick thoughts—a dozen in a row, a little blueprint, nothing more
than loving a mystery.
