suchaswitch

100620

In Uncategorized on 100703 at 2016

I could be buzzing but I’m independent. Not bee buzzing but an uncomfortable inexorable ticking, the timid guilt, “what have I gotten myself into?”, the lonely trepidity that there are so many mistakes in me.

I’d thriftily worried once, when concrete quixotism spawned me, oh I hate money, I hated and hate the spoons in the trash, the price of the Amtrak, the book and the unreachable brook and the badge of an author or magician, or actually any ism.

(Malaska told me of her series reliving her bravado, whiskied while waving out the famous filmmaker at some subtle soiree. He had ducked and so we chuckled but I don’t want to be that way.)

Lately brews a bold view, a confidence and willingness to thread my turnabouts, my vagabond caprice, and expend the silly money I make until it might be through..

In an artist’s eye I access the everythings, now allow myself meanderings. There’s no success in choosing, for we will always lose. I bastardize my roadtrip. I bought a moment on the train instead of hitchhike home, welcome flicks which amount and contradict and long for them to bring me to some poem.

The tropes, of gallantry (I step around the leaves) and ceaseless worry (the lean of the train), will get me; I give in, and spend the money. I aim home prudently, but use the vantage car to spur my arm, to see the levels of the gorge, like triangles, so pretty.

This ram which sets off alarms is also a root of inquiry – the whole inch of the flick elongates out of needing better bravery.

Six small-press books in a paper bag, impulse purchases, say, as I splay them on the seat beside me, it matters not which bricks I tread, but that I look for juts in many soil beds.

I’m certain I never select sentences that skirt the truth, I say it. But it, I bet, carries a strong shadow, oblique, nothing for you to keep.

I’m delving, with the river’s avenues, like the intersect of windbreak tree lines gathering pendulously behind, as Shiva’s arms; I watch the river for its islands, slopes that are not really slopelike if approached up close.

It’s not imagination, (though it’s important to know the perceptions that are winks on one side, awake if you happen not to fall across its intercept, or worse, asleep, if all you are’s a glimpse).

I divulge my brow is low, to see alternately, in the space above the edge of my eyeglasses. That seafoam, I think, might be from soap, or an innate sheen as in a stripe on a magpie or tern or a termagant. Some ponderances might have solve if I pulled out my slim silicone-encased electric brain, and asked a search, or marked “the extent of soap in environment” on a new line of the list “things to find” on my breastpocket’s papernotes. But I prefer to lay these staccato lines, examples of how I look at rock or take the time to travel with my regardless swivel, as a milemarker with the number rubbed, when you weren’t counting anyway.

I peruse the six volumes, wondering when I’ll hoist them and take a tack, prose poems, and if I should too be so oblique, ornate, (my gusts say, be brusque, just say what you must say). I took my waking medicine today instead in the afternoon, to see if I can erase the sleeplessness smell that invades my edgèd wafts. Suddenly the forest stops, I can’t recall the prior hour. Some say they do, but I avow we’re still compelled by wind. Stop the small press and I’m sure the linguistic tricks will digress and we’ll occlude ourselves in vivid armory, grow pensive and impress our able banal neighbors with discussions of the bridges, locks, the barkless logs, lupines, lava flow basalt, the stupor of the natural, in brusque but beautiful essaying, the eternal and the truth of natives living off the land, half-naked dark Americans.

Across from Wishram Washington, the cliffs from glaciers would seep in those sad cigarette smokers who strayed from the train at our short scheduled stop, and had to sleep along the river’s shore and await the next string of cars in another twenty-four, the best, I bet, hours to sting their forgetfulness after years of thistle removal in television flats.

This is the gale that has begun to immediate my flick, revaluate the adventurousness needed at any cost, the zen that (not nothinglike but swift) blows bravery across my indecision. Whether others suffer, to reach their destination on small copper coins or hunger for an inexpensive apple at their bare apartment, I have ample space to swing in, and don’t lament that I’d declined the naked bikeride celebration last night on the worry and whim that it might be cold.

I can’t regret when I wet my pants along the upper legs with rain – I can retrieve my own gear when I reach Richland; I wonder if I ought to have bought some ragged ugly slicker, which I’d never wear again, at the used supply store in Portland, which I waffled at, just to keep my comfort high – and I thus remember how flippant are our emotions, aches while abike that recede on the rising tide of glee once a fuller effort elicits a florescence of endorphin.

I should catalog these chemicals, conduct experiments on my caprice – read summaries and email layman inquires of the state of our consilience (I alternate already reading prose and annals and then poetry, the health of never asphyxiating on fantasy). As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten over being embarassed, I’ve become bolder to send frivolous messages to faculty members, expending their precious time, worse because I’m more sober than Malaska’d been.

Signs to taste wines or pick your own cherries is what’s ordinary, but salons in your dull town, self-invitations to the fancy homes with homebaked bundts in hands, will zip the zeal of some but become beacons that make everybody gleam.

I don’t see how the prose poem is elite, I must plant it in the light, impartialize it with beams (not the noir that makes you imagine what’s not there).

I must take tours of the Dalles, and Columbia’s dams, so I might remark; ‘d be a risk to make up myths so I could now say salmon, injun, turbine. Some stories without a rhizome (yet tunnel to poke up there and there) are inadequate and unfair.

So many auteurs have thought the thoughts that harvest up the inertia of a swerve, but don’t smile, like they lean to stay motive like the train, but never tell their ticket’s name.

I’ve thought to take up pinning upon myself a daily badge, “come talk to me (today) because…”, be brave and ask better questions than “where were you born?”.

I might map out my puzzling prose poems on adjectives that, like Madlibs, each child selects spontaneously, to look at a ledge in a. a light and b. a life and b. something similar, c. convergent evolution as example. An essay and a room of histories that negate the idiosyncrasies that we accept are nations. Echoes of consilience.

I kill the kombucha in the bottle, as I think “is it just its fizz”, or am I to believe the promising list of words on the label?

The arms of hilltop windmills reach down to the dusktime dark then radius up and glow in the higher still-there sunlight. Again I stop myself before irresponsibly making myth, and instead just sit and admire. There is there a lot to like, a lot of love to wave around, but then I have in my head no facts; I worry that the drunk driver, who’d coerced me into his car upon my thumb, might make his reckless sliver’s point.

The fog and dusk and dampness of my pants suggests how sad it is to set or to destroy.

What is the worth of the kitchen’s churn? We can eat apples, cycle surf and skate, we swerve and it’s okay – sways are parts of circles – but a sandstorm’s not worth your use of nervousness, the vehicle that harks you have a ceiling. An unnatural representation of a rainbow subverts its meaning by dividing many monochromes with lines. Gradient’s swear: there’s nothing to select, no real purple (a color wheel impishly suggests it’s blue plus red).

I could make this riverride my life, shuttling sideways city to city, better than six books, abolishing the tenuousness of plot. It is the flick, now this now that, that heartens me in Emerson’s everything, in Wilson’s web of strings.

Once one puts songs in the demesnes of words, I’m overprattled with twitching wants. My plausible poems that start as three lines on an idea-list should just sit as observations; for on the train, suddenly the gorge’s hills (once mountains, now two hours ago) have now become the basalt flood plains, flat, and I forget the weight that once set those threes in light. I instead look up the geologic claims that canyons can be carved, and understand why we title our paintings curiously, why this language’s ink is trumped by the dreams that blink when someone hangs triptychs of photography. Biographers are wont to tell around our big embarassments, and in pursuit of jobs the letters scholars collude and impinge upon the spirit of a labelless tongue. Don’t believe compelling gleams if you’ve never seen more than one. This is why I let the books lie, or arrange the spines (for the covers can say something else with their designs). This then this then, okay I’ll allow myself this, (but remember to balance each avenue with somber looms of buildings, squares and obvious edges, flat but multifarious in six-stories, and elevator conductors that connect each floor).

This pill’s also an appetite-suppressant so I haven’t consumed all three pluots I’d picked from the stacks of fruits at the fake-ecologic foodstore where I went to find my favorite rare flavor of clove toothpaste. But I’ve bagged my dreams so they don’t smoosh, won’t stain the handsome six smallpress volumes. (I should falsify this writ and say I stole them, but fie! This impulse was another flick, the impetus for this young prose-poem).

When we approach Pasco, my port where I’ll depart, I’ll snap this volume shut and leave a hanging line, if the ink is still available in the reservoir of this fountainpen. I will never lecture of the incomplete parcel of any life, but I will ask again, how are things known to be connected?

As I stumble through the train to find a bathroom that is vacant I descry several shackled gentlemen, alive with flair but do not flick, and I know they are not thinking sadness that the river is dulling as the skies which it reflects are growing dark. I think, “some other time” for I must do my duty for which I paid my money – not to meet fellows or unlock lads but write the wond’rous wilt of the noon-into-night, ponder on my flick, eat apples and beckon the Columbia, the urn that I inhabit, to connect me to its crystalline history.

(Oh! One lad has now alit to the observation cart with a stringèd instrument, and fiddles like my flick, but more elegant, a prize for us in here, the river watchers, as I emphasize the obscurity of ending (where does the river ever begin – oh, isn’t it a line?)).

I am opened in society. I tolerate the lad’s accidents because he is beyond the need to practice, and I’ll never naysay the effulgence of his archaic art. I hope he gets off at my stop, and wish I could be so gracious and proficient, to undivide the room.

This is another flick, a switch to uncloak what is triste in dark, the instant environment, impossible to pink with adjectives, to put inside my pen or compare to wetlands, but can boast that it invokes something you might not have thought.

I suppose that is also in a book, in the square building’s edges and its floors, the altering continuum of the cliffs that have faded hours ago. The sun has somehow poked this moment and I become a charlatan, now reversing all my observations, that that hour of lone dark sadness now is tricked to glow, gold and red, oblique like me, and shivers endlessly, built of so many individual flicks, and never again makes me want to sit.

Here’s my stop. I pat the lad, say thanks, as I pass. I get my bike. Goodbye.

(full title: 100620 100624 100626 100703)

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