Friday, April 18, 2008

A Matter Of Will Only

You wake and think that twenty sentences is more than you can handle. More than you want to handle. Yet doggedly sit down to them, thinking, keep 'em short. Awakened by bird song, and one or two stars like pinpricks of light through the soft-budding maples.

Slept first on the floor (dreams of fish, old friends, a flooding basement). Then at midnight rolled on to the couch (no dreams at all), feet dangling over the edge. Meant to read - Hejinian or Bernstein - but didn't.

One of the dogs was sick - very sick - which leads to feelings of anger, vulnerability, a sense that one has behaved through the years unforgivably. Hence the odd sleeping routine.

A study of melodrama might be beneficial. Or a little burst of poem.

As the light prevails (prevails?) the stars change color and fade. Like forgetting where they are. Can presence be a matter of will only.

What potential do six sentences have. Can they change the world. Can they locate one better in (or on) it. Do they have a mind of their own or are they - as Leonard Cohen writes - really really really really you.

Outside, two nights running, a home repair manual circa 1959 gathers dew. What is the point - or what is the matter - with being polite.

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