There
is some time yet before the bus arrives to take us home, rescued from the
bustle and the bells, returned to a simulacrum of serenity, a levelheaded dream
of sanity. As to my departure there is no urgency...but I am no longer young and
subject now to other urgencies.
I absent myself and the world pauses. I remain
immobile, inert in a communal solitude as private as prayer, standing, face to
the wall amid the other old men emptying our bladders in trickle time, thinking
thoughts like these, vivid as a flash, as perishable as wind...divine causality is far more complex than
mere scientific causality...and...there
is no art without moral purpose...and...truth
is the inexpressible certainty at the center of the universe...and...what our science styles evolution is really
just a very long and very thorough education...standing still, patiently
awaiting the next labored spurt cada vez
con menos fuerza bemused to bathroom bathos by the smell of disinfectant
layered on the odors of digestion and business
must grow regardless of crummies in tummies, you know immobilized for the
instant between Lorca and Lorax, all the disjunct flotsam of certain knowledge
long exploded and contemplation lamed by doubt my thoughts remain below flowing past the impassive inner eye,
accelerant and flickering as if a magic
lantern threw jetsam swept
downthought through the rapids toward the cascade where ends the stream of
consciousness and waves and breakers
crashing on the rocks below struggling always to remember (as I was taught)
that the evidence of my senses is conditioned by the structure of my thought and not the other way around once a day Cialis for the treatment of
erectile disfunction and the symptoms of BPH and we are the hollow men codpieces filled with until at last concluding with a final dribble
and shake rattle and roll, shake, rattle and roll I step away. The
world returns. The flush is automatic.
Lathering my hands happy birthday to you, happy birthday to I
observe my face in the mirror, studying for the length of a jingle happy birthday dear the lineaments of vain reflection gouged deep into my
forehead, the weight of diffuse sadness hung beneath my eyes, an overripe fruit
heavy and blue to bursting.
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a
pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall...
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall...
My life is an anecdote, and anecdote is fact refusing
to become mere statistic. It is the truer image of reality, the dispositive
shadow of freedom. I decline to be a datum. I dismiss the notion of my self and
my reality as composite number, Cartesian and graphable. I refuse the averaged certainty of the science
through which I move. I insist upon another vision, a wider freedom. And all
that I hold as honor simply the morality of superior lies in this, that I
cannot care that my insistence is powerless against the insistence of a world fiction
used by the herd that I am in but
not of. In this world thought's kaleidoscopic, a stream of words and images momentarily
present to the inner eye, glassine slivers of education and experience brightly
colored and backlit by memory, suspended between the transitory and the static,
briefly coalescing then just as quickly dissolving refragmenting and reforming,
an endless progression of patterns at once engaging and incomprehensible, a shimmering
fractal, individual, unique, irrepeatable --- a soul, a self...one's only real possession...one's
true possessor.
I dip my hands into the Dyson Blade, thar she
blows the wind impressed for humble service hast seen the white whale?
the gale domesticated, monetized and marketed...life's longboat swamped
by commerce. To breathe is to buy and sell: the world's respiration, the
moneychanger's moral my conscience 'tis of thee, sweet land of prodigality. On
the wall to my right a gray block vaguely resembling a postal box labeled in distressed
red, a hygienic concession to frailty and fear and fatality: Sharps Disposal.
Wherein to dispose of letters and of wit? but three to write you down…there
are whole days now when I fear I've lost mine...which only serves to prove that
I'm American and not alone God lent his grace to…and what then when the
note comes due? Kaleidoscopic.
Signs and symbols. The old man leaving having
laved, stately, proper, with only the slightest awkward curvature to his
spine, a minute off beat to the rhythm of his step hitch in his giddy-up pulls
an extra paper towel to shield his touch from lurking danger on the door
handle, germs invisible and malignant. An infestatious world Clorox
disinfectant wipes wherein perhaps we ought to bathe in bleach. A new
baptism. Reckless, I grab the
handle unprotected and yank it sharply past my shoulder, startling yet another
aged entrant. Sorry.
The air, approaching evening, is cool and pleasant,
still a lower sixties in the receding sun without a notable damp and easily
breezed. The bench, black metal, manufactured not forged, unremarkable, an
object only, a mere convenience shiny and democratic, affords a moment’s
comfort more or less. My hips hurt. The coach is due in half an hour. I light a
cigarette. Outcast. The canopy above in
protecting from the weather blocks as well a view of the overhead sky, forcing
vision forward across the bustle of the highway opposite to the rolling hills
beyond, forested and unmolested, a native nation, reserved, tribal, sovereign.
A wispy veil of cigarette smoke curls up before my face, suspended briefly in
the lee between breezes, and then dissolves, as fleeting as the memories of the
aged ah, but I was so much older then and I pan the springtime sky above
the verdant hills, vast, unbroken, cloudless. A hawk, in silent poise rapine
and attentive, glides in purposed circles between earth and sky, patrolling for
game turn, turn, turn…turning in the widening gyre and I watch its timeless
circuit with the same impassioned unconcern with which I now mark the passage
of the days and the changing of the seasons…in the juvenescence of…we
are born and we die…to everything there is…these are the certainties…the
bird, the bird, the bird is the Word…everything in between is simply
education…
Papa-oom-mau-mau…
No comments:
Post a Comment