Thoughts like a drive-in movie, tickle-rambles, &c.

Edvard Munch, Self Portrait with Skeleton Arm

Frazzle’d today, shiny shoes no where to be found, all my love is hidden deep within, could anyone break through the frozen grounds? Would anyone want to? I ask myself things often; how strange to possess certain thoughts, a flood of memory like a rain-pour down-pour, then the frogs levitate elsewhere, then the worms are washed up, and dry up in the next sunlight.

Thinking of Sir Thomas Browne, portionables of Vulgar Errors:

“But the longevity of that piece, which hath so long escaped the
common fate, and the providence of that Spirit, which ever waketh
over it, may at last discourage such attempts; and if not make
doubtful its Mortality, at least indubitably declare; this is a stone
too big for Saturns mouth, and a bit indeed Oblivion cannot swallow.”

– or, “every breath you take, every move you make...” Do not watch me, just make me more Intense. Bellyful of clocks. If there were nothing, we would all be portrait-only photographers. Would we not? Nay?

What about Vulgar Eros, instead? What is nameless? The-thing-that-is-unseen? Irrational. Poignancy in a pogo-stick when the little child jumps, watch out below when springing upon the diving board, no fluffy water below for the flesh. I tried to be different, like an aardvark, sappy bark, crying trees, crying breeze, cat-scratch-fleas. I felt your love like politicking for more love like hippies. Eat the babysauce, baby, let us hold one another at the carnival, I have found you to be like a bird, and my mouth opens, no words can be spoken, you're a rosebreasted grosbeak.

(check the clouds, and you will see a ‘Y’ or ‘Yes’ –- to hold on to the bridge railing. Multiply your ______)

If I had musical talent, I would be a musician. So, since I do not, I write lyrics with the music in my mind, hoping that I could eventually explain the music to someone, while I sing the lyrics. So, since I have no musical talent, although I have an ear for it in a strange kind of way, I write poems instead. O, bright metallurgy-mind!

What of “further illustrations”? Of “Meteors therein”? Stuck in my head, a galaxy, she said, “You seem to have so many cities in your head,” and why do these things make me feel embarrassed? Trying not to put on the “supernatural spectacles,” trying not too hard, trying to be a moon over a night-ocean, moonlight shimmer, inventing inventions, but only as rhymes, as poems. The season is changing, I felt it today –- went outside to grab coffee, choco-chip-KOOKie; surprised by the cool breeze, happily, I should say. I’m ready to be frigid; I’m thinking of frigid, thinking of Browne again:

But Ice is water congealed by the frigidity of the air, whereby it acquireth
no new form, but rather a consistence or determination of its diffluency,
and amitteth not its essence, but condition of fluidity. Neither doth
there any thing properly conglaciate but water, or watery humidity; for
the determination of quick-silver is properly fixation, that of milk
coagulation, and that of oyl and unctious bodies, only incrassation;
And therefore Aristotle makes a trial of the fertility of humane seed, from
the experiment of congelation; for that (saith he) which is not watery and
improlifical will not conglaciate; which perhaps must not be taken strictly,
but in the germ and spirited particles: for Eggs I observe will freeze,
in the albuginous part thereof. And upon this ground Paracelsus in his
Archidoxis, extracteth the magistery of wine; after four moneths
digestion in horse-dung, exposing it unto the extremity of cold; whereby the
aqueous parts will freeze, but the Spirit retire and be found congealed
in the Center.”

Language lights up the sky; no “Ethiopian blackness,” “does anybody really know where we really gonna go” says Verve-leader, I know where I’m going. Panic, picnic. Empathy is seeing through the wounds. Kindness is seeing through a body, looking into the shell as if with x-ray vision, always finding goodness in everyone. Blossoming like an anamita spore. For.

At The Drive-In

No comments: