Change my life
again. Write in a journal
something
maybe whispered from a bird,
a slow hunch
borne out
quickly.
Shake the man who makes
too much of his own time
down, down
to earth. Rub
my face in it, in earth, in grass:
“A man must have aunts
and cousins, must buy carrots and
turnips, must have
barn and woodshed, must go
to market and to the blacksmith’s
shop, must saunter
and sleep and be inferior and
silly.”
It's really such a relief to hear it
said so clearly.
*
A professor, surrounded by a vigorous dog,
once said to me:
clear writing is a morality, is moral.
He was talking about big T
and his cousin, you.
Surrealism, done well,
sounds just like the real world:
that was written on a book jacket
and made sense, too.
Of course you can't just point the camera, right?
Sunlight. Throwing one's arms in the sky
for a stretch. Writing by hand
on the first real day of spring,
a few days into summer. I am one nap away
from waking a real man.
1 comment:
Was Big T so immoral? I thought he was just moving the way that felt most natural--zigzagging and mercurial as the life force. And who knows, maybe the life force is the thing morality tries to reduce to mere clarity so it can be defended on its own terms.
As for this other stuff, you're already awake. You're way more awake than me, even over here in my own head!
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