Tuesday, March 25, 2014

A Sort of Dogged Prayer

With Spring comes wordiness, as with winter a sort of dogged prayer. Don't think you aren't on my mind, but don't think that's an enviable place to be. Bowls of stew in a dark restaurant after hiking Mount Mansfield, a long debate about Bob Marley's legacy. Please see that anticipation is a form of resistance.

As a kiss is a wild blueberry bush? I brush my teeth a long time now squirrels are visible in the pine trees again. Where are my beloved bluets right this very moment? Obviously somewhere in thought, maybe naked with you, all of you rhapsodizing on violet bands of the spectrum.

Write when you don't want to especially. Think in terms of melody, Chuck Berry or Beethoven or my beloved - my tremulous idolatrous - Chopin. I crossed a dim field to find her, put my arms around her and the rest you can read about it in my memoirs. Her shoulders, the dulcet tenor of shyness.

Those were good years, lost in Vermont, language establishing a base in me. Social skills are overrated! Oh well, my happiness is yours if you want it, but my body belongs to flowers and moose calves, pine cones and birch trees, and any woman who'll bare a shoulder beside me. We are always winning the wrong contest and contesting the wrong activity.

How utterly full of shit one can be and still perceive the underlying - the stratifying - grace! Two months and I'll be out all night, sitting up by a small fire, listening to peepers and coyotes, maybe getting head, maybe not. What a lovely life to so briefly occupy! See how the firelight extols our one body, stars replacing our mouths for a kiss!

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