Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Ultimate Narrative I

A wisp of cloud mistaken for the moon. West and a little bit South. Discomfiting as in "where are we in the day?" Time and place are both fictions, created to sustain the ultimate narrative, I. I still have that picture of Jesus you gave me for it hangs in the basement where I write.

Yet this poem is not that poem though the inner cynic (and his massive bloody cigar) remarks that one day it could be. I'm pretending to do math while working on a sonnet, that's what. The dream made clear that I not only avoid all teachers, I actively obfuscate their goal. Did Gertrude Stein speak the way she wrote? By and by wonder.

One does reach "a point." In which time any number of writing implements were stolen. Thus one could say later, "we expect a book." What rain, what camellia blossoms. If I have to read once more how Jesus and the Buddha shared a boat going down the Ganges . . .

The motivational speaker said when you wake up and look in the mirror, ask yourself, what kind of asshole am I going to be today. Timbers of cumulus or rather puffy white clouds reminiscent of a certain castle. The poet was not used to thinking of herself as anything other than a child. Your lost shoes at last. Broadly, excoriation.

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