Friday, April 24, 2009


Something of an apple blossom or dust co-mingling with breath. Underneath, a root rot. Stab it in the heart, why don’t you. Or meticulously catalogue its fibers. Breathe in, breath out. As you walk along, think of crisis or sing a jingle from the TV & all the ways of forcing a thing into the mind. At seven, have a birthday party. Golden arches. Less than simply something but not nothing, no thing. Notice the curl, the angle or angular presence of letters. Write something down. These are not directives. Whistling all the way to the bank & home again to have fast-moving hands & a violin. We could say he came back yesterday or that he never left & either case would be true. Terminals, bathrooms, walking heavy. I felt that same nagging lack, always nibbling at my ear. I left your keys in the mailbox. Going or staying? Sunlight in through on an angle, notice the dust motes, swirling. Skin cells. You left or I did, staid, stayed stationary, all would be true. Sing a jingle, play the notes out. We met over coffee with all of this capital between us. I moved but I stayed right exactly where I was if movement is emotion. You moved, that is true. Look at a tree, notice how splendid brachiation. Howler monkeys, lemurs, all mammals owe it to the wet nurse. If I said any of it, or if you did. Friendship ties one & one. Romance stitches. All is on a rhythm but not a schedule & that distinction bears all importance. Or a maple, elm touched with blight, gnarled, knotty. Bees buzzing mild winter. Everything we have only works until it doesn’t. Put down something sharp & small. Sing it out loud. Words you read are heard. Let’s make a day of it, why don’t we. All there is to say, hear said. Where one thought leads to another, a link with no connection. Foraging for berries is fun if you have no money. Or let’s talk about potable water instead. Posing for the camera, it’s all for posterity’s sake or the extension of memory. Not to be pedantic. Go ahead & try it. I saw a bird yesterday I’d never seen before, warbling at me, hesitant but trusting & that’s all there is to it. Look at it directly, all except the sun which slants now several degrees from where it was before. Dust motes caught momentarily by surprise, but not if you’re underground. Or better yet, go through the drive-thru. Step on it. He motions. He is motion. He does motion. Quick & quietly. A bramble, an underbrush. What is the name of those bugs who lay eggs in other insects? All for a feast, a rhythm. You let go of my hand because it was sweaty.

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