Saturday, April 21, 2012

Not Even Sunday

Pizza dough rising, lukewarm tea, a music in which robins sing and it's not even Sunday! A gap between teeth in which pain exists. One comes to the essay in search of understanding, hence the need - almost imperceptible - for poetry. Or Bob Dylan in 1965. You see?

One wouldn't eliminate waterfalls, why eliminate thought? There is no such thing as banal chatter! Yet drunk sometimes I do wonder. You understand? Or I don't.

Or else. And other phrases one can't quite escape in which the self shamelessly asserts itself. Writing like this is fructive in a way that most writers have forgotten. I mean we never mean what we think we mean. The field was seen as a beautiful carpet until I remembered the horses buried beneath it.

How strange to be so familiar with the graves of horses. To leap from one stanza to the next under the guise of heeding the sentence. One glances in the direction of trust, then back down to the day old pastry on which a single black ant rests. You want rhyme? I love how you are always on time.

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