zensolo’s e-mailed chronicles posted by morituri.

November 27th 1998

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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


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


(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 1:39 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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