Tuesday, January 29, 2013

A Sort Of Operatic Confusion

One can say that this writing occupies my mind. It is easy to say that death is not real until one is actually faced with death and then you don't want to say anything except Jesus. So the body lurches from thought to thought, forever bent on its version of salvation.

Morning coffee, bad news, and the whole world through a dewy tear. I wrote two letters, burned both, and then went walking in the wrong jacket. Can one ever quantify knowledge?

Shopping for apples ought to make anyone happy. The mail is always posing in opposition. The basement flooded and we lost many books, most of which we'd never read which - after a few days had passed - struck us as both hilarious and spiritually opportune.

Spiritually opportune! Repetition emphasizes but it can also obscure. Pay attention to how you read me!

A dizzying walk absent stars and a painful memory strikes you right about there. The barber was quiet, no doubt recalling his own struggles with maternal influence, or perhaps simply revisiting the funeral of his beloved. What wanes no longer waits and so returns (more or less).

Yet too much can be made of disappearance in a world that always succumbs to the senses. To the sentence? One intends ecstasy and arrives - as ever - at a sort of operatic confusion.

The eternal and unchanging Truth has never cared about  your poetry! We wake up beneath a forgiven elm at the crossroads, we kiss tenderly as the light fails, and we massage the feet of all the passing travelers.

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