Thursday, July 15, 2021

Feed Ducks and Swans

"I struggled with some demons/they were middle class and tame." Hey, what's the word for a comparison using "like" or "as?" Hanging gentians. Geriatric lilacs.

Reading Johnny Tremaine was my first conscious experience of the fugue states that would eventually characterize my living, sudden hard shifts away from the world into an extremely tiny movie theater with an impossibly bright - almost torturously bright - screen and the best damn stories ever.

I remember arguing with a guy in Burlington, I forget the name of the place, it had his name in it, put three times as much cheese on the pizza, it's what I want, and he insisted it would ruin the pizza and therefore he wouldn't do it "for my own mother, god rest her," and I think of him often when I start telling people this is what a poem is, this is what it's not. 

Battlefield medicine. Everyone should bake bread at least once a week, even if only to feed ducks and swans. What is sustainable, what is not. Where does the appearance of lightning go upon reaching the sockets of a blind horse or is that a cosmos as yet hidden from me?

All night I turn back and forth in bed trying to find a way to sleep. What is art. Art?

Garlic clove peels, dusk: what are two things that share the bluish purple hue of certain summer flowers. Trying to talk myself out of a gift for myself. Waking early, between thunderstorms, to check on things: the horse's hay, basement flooding, rat traps, Jesus's interest in listening to my ideas about ignoscency, et cetera.

Missing coffee cups. My wife at the hospital being brave. My daughter in the grocery store relying on me to make a better choice than I did the last time this happened. 

Probably better to say X can mark the spot, i.e., don't assume it automatically does, let the light come to you et cetera.

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