The magazine looks
intrusive. Pictures trespassing comforts. The zone of beasts the design of
ages, at a couch, a chair, turned around and living. I rethink the planets. I read
astrology. I haven’t a clue of what to look for; to enter a tunnel, to sway
into a star, the constellations have brought us back. The money of the
loneliness; the war of the familiar; the pain of the last session—the love as
it melts, the next morning, to suggest such and such is better off—the pain in
the selfless act, the automatic beliefs, the group beliefs, the reason we
jettison beliefs. I was reading a
newspaper: a man died in Atlanta, a rapper, just sitting in his car. We doubt
that, that’s intelligence, never let it go!
I was with desire. I was with a feeling. It passed. The magic is in
grabbing and acting on the feeling, like civilized beasts. The science is
denying the gravity, so gravid, so healthy in becoming science—with a need for
feelings. So misbehaved in behaving
so curtly, with flame inside to sustain a block of sulfur. The bass in the sound sustains the future—the
furniture is in the seams, the face of the mountains—born to it, can’t say much—the
floods say it all; concrete conversation, abstract means, attributes to describe
color. The gold in eyes, will suggest the pensive longing, perchance it was
just our turn.
