Friday, October 10, 2014

A Kind of Sideways

Some times it seems as if I am forever driving to New Hampshire, or maybe it is always summer 1983, or are all landscapes rich in sunlight and hills and conversation.

I cannot now be where I was not, nor anticipate a future I have not already seen.

The jasmine tea grew cold while he wrote, falling leaves making a whispering sound against the window to which he only now and again could give attention.

Perhaps embellishment is inherent in the epistolary impulse?

The neighbor's steer cried out repeatedly, its low wails echoing up and down the hill in a way that foreshadowed its death, its bloody transition to steaks and ground meat, and one could not help but respond.

Feelings of course are information, that's all, data points in the always-constellating self.

Sometimes it seems as if the very memories of which I am at least partially composed are bound in no way to time nor - by extension - to the me so invested in them.

How I love photographs!

Revelation when it came was in the nature of a ripple - a ripple at dawn in softest light - silver and whispery and faint - and all my acid trips and related inducements were an impediment to its reception.

Frost on the barn roof glittering in moonlight a reminder that I am rich beyond belief but curtailed as always by my insistence on possession.

My resistance to rhyme?

In the paragraph one assumes a new responsibility, one through which light passes as through a clean prism, to emerge both radiant and bright.

The salt in us appears at our most sensitive moments, testifying again to the vulnerability of the body and - somewhat less obviously - our abiding relationship to oceans.

A passing she could not bear, no matter how fine her boots, no matter how yellow her hair.

Resonant angels harmonizing with canines bearing life a kind of sideways.

And yet you cannot sell God and grace is neither lucrative nor subject to design.

In my dreams, the word "pellucid" and - again - a sense of hippocampus breaching.

Praise is not unlike foliage in autumn: vivid and impressive but oh so brief and forever reminding one of gravity and earth and what is over before it began.

For I was happy then - it all lay before me - and there was no sense of the brokenness and holiness that would later appear so complexly, confounding my movements and leaving me tangled in bottles and sadness, battles and grief.

Yet he he carries it with him for you still and the world resounds accordingly.

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