zensolo’s e-mailed chronicles posted by morituri.

am strand hebdo: wieder zurück/prodigal rituals

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Friday th 27, 11.1998 (13h39) in th notion of escape yet a motion of return & recovery holds fast th integrity of th fabric…
* fliegende heimat? hogar/hearth en l’air?

a syncopated nomadic songline threading back&forth, my attention shuttles
like a loom, seeking to weave some poetry
out of th gathered fiber of random observation & circumstantial
then sleep ties its own connecting knotwork-
I dream a joking conversation (w/ ingrid, th patternmaker from graz i want
to know better)
in which i seek a reassuring pretext to shave my body clean
* of a major rebuilding of th beach house, round egyptian columns rising to turn th sea-facing open terrace into an atrium-some sort of (holographic?) projection/recreation (-or actual
sandfill?) rebuilding of th sandy shoreline of my childhood, th slanting concrete forms of th collapsed seawall still rising above th recovered beach-like a makeshift parapet, like protective ramparts…
(i find a fragment of august, a little airstream of hot summer riding
on th vague nostalgia seeping out of th lyrics to america’s ’sister
‘i ain’t ready for th altar/but i do agree
there’s times/when a woman sure can be a friend of mine…
i’ve been one more foolish– (??)/i’ve been too too hard
to find/ but that doesn’t mean/ you ain’t been on my mind…’)

th moon is late on my desk…
celestial bodies burnish & deepen their glow
as they drop from th heavens & sink into dim earth…

will you meet me, will you find me there?
will you soften th frightening oblivion
of yr child-seeking embrace?

I recognise & am drawn w/ attentive fascination to courtship in th wild:
watch th crabs on th shoreline rocks lock pincers & tango as th noontide
thrill to crickets calling in th spare, dry grass or hiding
behind th icebox as th seabreeze sinks into th dead calm of twilight- I lay silent emotional bets on th feistiest little dog in th pack chasing bitch scent, creep up close behind puffd-up parading pigeons until their fearful awareness of my presence deflates them & nod drowsily under th spell of th inconsolable turtledove’s three hollow flute notes…
(it’s th mating rituals of my species that stump me… frustrate befuddle bewilder bemuse & completely elude me…)

Written by morituri

November 27th, 1998 at 1:16 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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