Thursday, December 22, 2011


Sitting down with a bowl of tomato soup, and a grilled cheese sandwich I dip the golden buttered bread into a sea of red. I take a bite. I feel a spark. A connection is made to some long lost place in time and space. I feel the urge to climb onto the rough and scream out lines of prose while sitting fire to effigies of Allen and Jack. I want to get up and paint pop art icons of the can and lead protests across college campuses into the hills an’ dales to save tortured beasts of burden from their unhappy fates! But this to passes quietly. It is but one spark in one small corner of the universe. But all of the times, peoples, and places brought into consciousness are to nothing more then a glint in the universes endless seething darkness. Madness. I lift the bowl to my lips and drink the red liquid as if taking part in some ancient blood rite; the kind of ritual which Franz wrote about; whose residual presence drove the men in white coats to resort to insulin therapy and electro shock to chase away the demons of those very same savages of old. I stand up as if to take a step forward, in order to break the hold of that moment, only to fall back down. Scream I think. Why bother I mutter. The music cracks, silence, the needle raises and falls onto its resting place. Silence. Embrace it. Fill it. Destroy it. 

1 comment:

La Redecouverte said...

Your poetry and narratives are like those of an artist wrestling with his craft. Very cool. Thanks for sharing

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