suchaswitch

100929

In Uncategorized on 100930 at 1757

I thought there would be buzzing.  Twitching, tottering, nervousness.  But instead I still go in, calm and saying I’m determined, until the end, on my bike on the ride home, rolling through the warm autumn, moon low but looming in magic, that everythingness the Buddhists say bears awareness.  Then, traversing the somber night, observing the alterations of the trees, the shadows on the fields of sage, I see my life being flayed, torn in two, or two-thousand, the sever of my ever-persistent dreams and brainstorms from the objective diligence that is shriveling somewhere in the burrows of my mind.  When I once damned the day, the hark of work, which demands a microscope, the narrowed peripheral, perhaps the slay of poetry, I helmed the motor, boarded buses to take me where I say I want to aim, not stray as one wends through museums, or worse (and what must have murdered my momentum early on) – the traipse through television’s maze, the distraction of prismatic sound & vision.  I aimed, with those moments of the regret at night, to get sunglasses, to tint everything tan, to not become a fractured, fraying man, not get fired from my rising perch at the ivory lab, to seek the chiseled edge of diamondwork, hurry with my lapidary strides, pluck poetry from all sides, yet continue the duality: a scientist-artist, a poet-doctor, a superlative ruminator, make metaphor and equally hypothesis.  But I cannot sit.  With the strange inner beckon my tearful night magnetizes in me, I also angle every possibility and meander randomly, never noticing the time tick down, never having a hallway to hurl myself down, on wheels.  I must fix the swivel of my casters on this cart, cement it out.  I must dedicate each day to the tasks which will bring a gleam, or grow an open heart.  I must evict out the dirt that I fleck off, somehow unspeckle myself.  Will that make me monochrome?  For the first time I feel the deep syrup of a lone lump of coal, the fume everyone wants to use, but eschews.  I must make my melancholy happy.  I must misreflect the gleam of the glittering throne, out of my eyes, and lacquer this parlor with stately stained rich mahogany, make stolid the long reach and reduce the lurch, and aim away from worry, away from clack, to hoot not cluck, to bellow like the mellifluous owl, who hunts at night for love and sustenance, but maybe make this wing nevermind (or love!) the sun, put pigment on my skin, don a visor on my crown, keep the dark spectacles always on.

100929 100930.

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