Saturday, October 1, 2011

Harbor As Kids, Island As Adults

One comes to as roosters begin their throaty roar, attended by an ache that suggests no writing of any quality will be done before noon. Go ahead and question everything. Finally we are tackling Kierkegaard. She scooted around the basement in search of a picture frame, offered it as a gift and - or but, maybe - it was accepted as a metaphor for prayer. Let me be honest and say that I have broken faith with nearly everyone I've met. Sleepy children are not like secrets. The sentence begins with a fragment and proceeds to a lilt. Ships safe at last. The image is only once removed from Truth (as opposed to language (which is twice removed)). We played harbor as kids, island as adults. I stopped to admire graffiti in Paris, all the while with that nagging sense that somebody was watching me. His fingers were like sausage, his breath a bellows, and all the nurses still professed to love his jokes. We move in the direction of Heaven which is another way of saying we have no goddamn idea what Heaven actually is. Some teachers are better than others, and some lessons, too. Put on your glasses - there's something I want to show you. The chickens raced out of their soggy hut, stopped to pick at lettuce scraps from the night before, then bolted for the tall grass where succulent worms and other bugs remained despite the cold. My website on horses is your designer coffee. We paused to exchange pleasantries, intent on kindness but troubled by the inevitable vagueness of desire. There's a new way to cook steak now I've finally got some centuries old cook books. Pay attention then, and refuse to be casual.

No comments:

Post a Comment