Pasting suspension to the present has multiplied my resources by half, and the distortions are weekends. I sift the depth of Being and get absorbed in baking. Concertinas and drums inspire swimming. Words make me feel athletic. Salmoniforme. I have all the incentive of extraverted spars on an introverted ship. I like to build castles when I wash and perceive soap as a form of swan, immobile as a fork on a mahogany table. Scribbling excites my instincts. It gives me intent. I cut a long ugly spoon out of Dickens and tumble the dinner plates into Middlemarch. The harnesses get soaked in the rain and a horse opens a single eye. I foster all the splashes I can. I think I may be getting somewhere. I whisper things while doodling and enkindle a scratch of thought on the back of a summer. Logic is the last thing I think of when I think of thinking. I bump into implications of melody and exaggerate my sweat. The interior holds me in its curves. I wax an edge and growl. I see light come out of my thumb. The buckle invites the beats with which to haunt Cézanne. The confusion is palpable. Fashion likes to watch itself. And it’s flourishing. So what does that mean? I’m going to yank a lotus out of the architecture of age and produce a blue so blue it beats the autonomy of red to hell. This is evocation. This is catalytic. The strength of any book is to impose its frictions with heft and deliberation and appear to bounce effervescently into Wales. I insist on being geographical. It brings me peace. And hills and fields and mountains and perforations. The mind blossoms in its malleability and sparkles like an airplane. Go figure. I sigh to accept the hive. I will employ it well. The aluminum is parenthetical. Hair has a physical elation that can only be matched by the suppleness of pronouns. I will therefore furnish the migration with maps and arms. Hegel urges coffee. Spit hooks. See what happens. I feel the ache of healing in every plummeting monarchy. Vapor hauls the mountains into view and that old timeless beauty of birch on a hillside in early October. Playing Bach brings the sweat out in me. Especially since I can’t play Bach. What I can do is zip my pants up and try to be more honest in the future. I can supply wrinkles with wind and distance. Wrinkles in time. Distances on the face. I will wiggle it all into paradigm. I will indicate eyeballs when I see eyeballs. Yours or mine makes no difference. I will pull the creosote out of the debris left by Jack Kerouac and introduce an unfettered oboe to the upholstery of wine and its sumptuous homilies. Brush tendencies into stars. Stray into winter with the exploding metal of revolt. Writing is brocade, pure and simple, a cow alone in a field chewing a stunning insight over and over. It gives me instincts and wonder and I flow along in the sentence sagging a little at the stern on a flat thin piece of language.
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2 comments:
This line resonates with me: "Logic is the last thing I think of when I think of thinking." You articulated something I've been thinking but couldn't put into words. I'm eager to quote it in a conversation. I don't know if you read these comments, but could you turn me onto a poem that meets these criteria: 1. Was originally written in English 2. Rhymes or at least has meter 3. Is hallucinatory, phantasmagoric, just downright creepy. I hunger for such poems around Halloween. Thanks for keeping this Blog going. For me, it's kind of like reading the news, but less depressing.
There’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for starters. And if you want to hear a little of the history and breakdown of the poem, I highly recommend BBC 4’s “In Our Time” podcast:https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000srdx
There’s also “I Felt A Funeral In My Brain,” by Emily Dickinson, “The Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe, any number of ballads by Helen Adam (check out some of the YouTube presentations), the Witch’s spell from Shakespeare’s Macbeth (Macbeth with Denzel Washington in the lead role is due out this December), and “The Apparition” by John Donne, to list a few. Good luck! (also, just came to me, "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival. "Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon.
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