A Riot of Mud

Bruno Schulz preface:

                                    "The whole . . . was soaked in the gentle air and filled with blue breezes. When you lay in the grass you were under the azure map of clouds and sailing continents, you inhaled the whole geography of the sky. From that communion with the air, the leaves and blades became covered with delicate hair, with a soft layer of down, a rough bristle of books made, it seemed, to grasp and hold the waves of oxygen.

That delicate and whitish layer related the vegetation to the atmosphere, gave it a silvery grayish tint of the air, of shadowy silences between two glimpses of the sun. And one of the plants, yellow, infused with air, its pale stems filled with milky juice, brought forth from its empty shoots only pure air, pure down in the shapes of fluffy dandelions balls scattered by the wind to dissolve noiselessly into the blue silence.”

he smoked a La Gloria Cubana in a sun filtering through an easterly blanket of clouds 

bearing rain  warm and cold at turns

its wind in his ear

a lousy lover

                                                                i   

inarticulate  he contemplated a creative mind

                                                                a

                                                                g    

                                                                i    

                                                                n        shutdown by a foreseen

                                                                a        bullet to the brain

                                                                t

                                                                i

                                                               o

                                                               n

a specific brain

Brunos brain

from a gunshot he wouldnt hear

deaf

unlike all the other gunshots he heard

all the executions   purgings

he wondered if Bruno hadnt imagined the bullet smashed by his skull

altered mysteriously

into a fragrant mushroom tarnished

red by the sun and blood

sprung among the fern moss and roots mooring the forest or an anemone spawning in 

the underwater shoals of his brain

if

in that last mortal nanosecond -  yet contrived  - in that last moment before his death

if

Bruno didnt compose in elegiac prose  like Pan or Mr. Charles  a fantastic escape   

a picnic of the Senses

an escape into the afterlife before his life was shuttered and stopped

                                                                                                    and all the stupid 

Gestapo officer succeeded in killing was a dead body

the Sentience already awing and beyond approach or pain

all the jealous German did was shoot a riot of mud standing in the shape of a man

1527,  Twosday,  5  3. 13