There was a peaceful moment just a little agony over facing the inevitable struggle with eggs or cereal I even pulled up the shade on the back window for a rare look and the bare fingers of the spindly trees posed against a long lit cloud for a two-tone fashion subtle greys bottom and brashly contrasting summery top. Then, there was a scratching at the back door Did the porch cardinal suddenly decide to present demands? No, scratching to the left and right there are never so many birds (would that, as we were just) No. It was the wind again. The director called strike this set the cat started yowling again or the cat was the director, I confuse That cloud was rolled out stage left tout suite Hold onto your hats
Still in my late 20’s (in the late ’70s). A LOT of writing, saying it all, back before these truths and lies had become self-evident and then I didn’t see why I should keep writing it. And my hand didn’t yet hurt too much to hold the pen. Then, finally, evidence of attempted graphic composition: what would become my second lithograph.
When I was completely unmoored, at 28 years of age. Never to quite return.
For some reason I kept hearing about poetry on radio and TV today. Went and looked in the occasionally lugged along legal pad, and sure enough there was a scrawl from just about a year ago I guess. so I typed it up with just a little second-draftism and here it is being shamelessly squeezed into the inter-tubes. Possibly part of my seasonal cycle. ————–
so, then it was fall for awhile – (let’s call it Fall.) not just the leaves, something, things, else is falling Maybe longer than usual, I hear but here we are so close to the end seems like nuthin’ Last good day, maybe, probaly falling falling Last good day of this round who knows if it will go around again I see it falling chalk dust falling behind the lake Sure it was so beautiful, those few moments When I got out Heartbreaking at sundown, hue saturation so cranked up the crinkle of the vegetable kings’ violated borders so sharp and rough even these old eyes can feel. The bleeding heart of clouds, bleeding sweet wine (for all the good you bleeding hearts do us untouchables) the overacting of the leaves’ death dance in stage makeup the tiny flush of rose from within dark draperies. life shrouds floating around that young woman across the street. Does she see the sky like I do, also sticking a tongue out to try to catch a drop? does she see how I see the sky? How sweet would it be to be walking with her at this moment. (oh? Like I always say, good to be alone at a time like this) What juicy world juice we could pass back and forth. I bet it could make this paper sack I carry my senses in seem like a velvet purse. But no, not now, most of then and and then neither; Mostly just a few flashes in the darkness. and whiteness. Now it’s the white again, falling down across the backdrop. Just the first light coating of pastel. I see it filling in as I reach the lake so thick with family funflies just the other day, now all wide open & clear – guess that’s how the landscape goes: First the people , pfft, gone, then the rest slowly faded as the whiteness falls.. layers of chalk, or maybe it’s that asbestos-laced talc I used to shake onto the litho stone drying the ink; now that i think… That looked like this – the image gradually disappearing- but the little horizontal block now raised on edge and stretched from edge to edge. and my skin separates and stands up white, white, white preparing for when it floats up to meet the snow. Before the talc sinks in the grain gets coated by dust and soot, ink and earth rising around the flakes.
here it comes, here it comes comes the gray, darker darker lovely charcoal smudges hover over the cloudy folks in the shiny street. today on the heading out bus, looking down to the end wasn’t raining but the sky looked damp, straggling clumps of leaves losing the last of their yellow, leaching “It’s turned to soup,” I thought.