2004-09-20

Possibilities

I

That He wakes in a wonderful daze of his own accord, and has nowhere to go for a particular contract, that is he is a free lance, a free soul; free to wander about on a Sunday, a holiday, free to get up or sit up in bed, to buy a newspaper and read or crossword, or stay and talk quietly with his honey, the other now-slumbering form in the bed, or to get up and find himself enamoured with the world about him. Find his genius challenged. Something in the air, the ether, that is presenting him with a burning question, a thick unsolved mystery, to climb to a height today and solve some small part of it, for a moment make a clear understanding of it all like a scientist, or an engineer, or an artist. A free day and he�s out bounding to get to work.

II

Oh and there is a tightness stored in his body, in his gut also, a day by day tightness that says No as a habit, and routinely stretches the tissue and tendon holding his poor figure up. As Age makes itself known, with merely a stir, her realizes . . . He tightens like a rope holding a boat to dock, through long warm days, bitterstorms of wind and madness, waves licking the shore till they freeze solid up for the winter.

A tightness that wishes no harm, only sees a need for itself in preservation. He longs to be released to hit someone like in a football scrimmage, with his held-in shoulders, to swing at a punching bay, to make life a contest again. To relive young thoughts impeterbable and confident.

The short stresses of the day have a home in him. The long-held accretions delay and hold up also, like a pearl, in his gut.

III

She has wet the bed. Long held taboo she has made it red. The girl has bled onto the sheets, and underneath, a spot she wakes to find and rushes him off, gathers the material and takes it to the sink, pouring cold water.

Is she Dying on the sheets, growing with no sense, giving birth to red beets? No cry, no sigh, or lullaby. He is with her but they are pausing, for what? Waiting, working, For what? The master plan will come to fruition, for What?

She drops the fruit, bitten and rank. There will be now other time than this time, there will be no other man than this one. I will wait and plot my course, she says and sits.

IV

We are held back, developing obsessions to compete with impulse.

Have courage! Young soul, spill your eggs from your basket. Life is too manifold and glorious! Unpredictable is the mundane. And so just is the original you, the childlike assimilation of cells, of sentences, of friend and foe alike � obliteratng each other, later, the simple love of reminiscence.

Learn to walk toddler, learn to whistle, young boy, Learn to fight, native; Trust true love, stallion! Go and make currency for yourself, young man. Dare to excite the world, throw off the generational accretions of shackles for today . . . implulse and jouissance reign in the hearts and faces of men, women, friends.

V

She is observed, she is a participant � she receives the male gaze. It bounces off, grazing her armour, polished and glazed like an opalescent pear, like a buffed and shined �56 Cadillac. Her fins are erect, her tires pumped full and muscular, her hood smooth, her dash serene.

She turns her head and thinks dusgusst or tiresome annoyance, or a thought of joy possibly but probably just disgust. She walks past and perhaps pulls her self � conscious top down past her midriff, cheeks red and thinks even in this neighborhood, on this street, in this home, I am never safe, not safe; not safe.�

He spins away and appraises the backside when noone�s looking and a small voice asserts he will do this forever.

VI

That a full circle might be made, that a security will envelop him through this madness that makes it palatable in form to his neighbors, to his parea, to his common kin folk. That He might maintain erectness for his mind as well as his diaphragmic musculature, that the mercurial barameter will be stabbed deep enough and in just the right place to keep him alive, to splice and reconfigure his brain stem cells, his spinal

Fluid and bones, his cerebellum and thyroid.

That a paradise with friends will edify itself in real time, in real life, for a real moment that may be savoured and quite literally lived off of for a great many years, that he may again prepare for in peace and holy love, a return to this cycle a wiser and greater artist of man.

VII

That love is ideal. That we are joined at the hip as Siamese. That we engage in a surgical procedure televised and breadcast to the Americans and beyond; in which we reverse the separation that was inflicted on us at birth. That we predate and prognosticate our union in death by edifying it here, in our life. Making a simulucrum of what will be in the heavens for us � a union after perhaps a 1000 lives more, or, only two, with the blessed Brahma, nirvana, Yogilama.

Christ separated from life on a cross that is the intersection of two, perpindicular and prostrate, possessing the�other� in one spot, the heart, the hearth, the center of all pain and life.

To know what the other will say, and think what the other thinks at about the simultaneous time, joined in our space � time ethosphere continuum for now, repeating ad hominum, for ever.

(9-5-04 11 am � 12 pm)

(typed 9-20-04 11 pm � 12 am, approx)