it threw him for a lemniscate(double
loops laying side by side)
he was pretty damn sure that among
the sheets of paper strewn across his desk
hastily tucked between
the pages of soft or hardbound books laid flat
soldierly on the shelves
or gripped in a Bear-of-a-Clip board curmudgeonly
somewheres
he
had a raw piece to work this afternoon
and if he did he couldnt find a one
to make complete sense of it(Outside his experience)
it was like running without legs
wrioting without a hand Bic penbreathing without lungs
or fucking without a cock(or a
cunt for the matter of equality -- and it mattered)
itd been some time since game was
this slim and he was forced to tend the stock pot simmering over the fire
stirring in hacked bits of meat root vegetables and the darling spices
and herbs he learned to savor
magically
they usually fell like ripened autumn
fruit
which
he need only to squat and gather by the handfuls in wire-handled bushel baskets
or
sundusted grain
cut with a scythe reaper
bundled in tight sheaves for milling
the
harvest gleaned
leaving nothing ever to be
wasted
rocks turned at the sea in the mouths of rivers or
wee bright streams inland for the words written on their bellys
magically
it was a rare piece he would
claim as his own
more likely he was a conduit
no more responsible for the
fashioning of the words than a telegraph wire was for telegram or the blameless
whitened rebirthed vessel for Gods Word
except his words were truer
more authentic
words brecciated with ageless Time
remembering
of course
they werent his
and so
not finding a piece like a needle
in a Van Goghish haystack perforce was evident
gray lichen hanging from tree
boughs
beards to be scratched
while wondering
while wondering
Sunday
afternoon, 12 4. 15
1307, Monday, 13 4.
15 Thomas Jeffersons boithday
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