On the bidding of rain having fallen and blown into my lap from the open window. Etc. etc.
(Note: No one need bother with reading these things. For some reason LJ is conducive to these dribbles of babble. Sometimes I post them because I must for my own purposes, but in other circumstances, I find they have come to be written here, so why not post the things anyhow--I hear on occassion that a few among you take enjoyment in them. I submit to the collective, therefore.)
- - -
Rain...
I can see the trees across the street reflected in the wet pavement; I lay back, catch my neck upon the pillow, and lay down forecasts of fire and brimstone lay it on my thigh to delight in what is here. What is it about a day of covering that so incubates one?--insulates with cloud, water. These wide open skies without variation won't let me decide whether I am coated in blue paint, red white all without dimension, or else a thing without form enough for the job.
"There was a garden in the beginning..." Drops fall to the puddles. "Original sin--no I don't think so / Original sinsuality..." What is to be redeemed, after all? The soil finds its way still into my room, the air carrying it. Limbs blow and will. There is no longer need for argument or indecision; with the trickling of liquid on every tissue is the end of apprehension--a sigh. A procedure without rigidity. It sweeps each just a little bit.
"No, I don't think so..." Let the mystics in, the Palestinians without funding, the tulips now in their fullest purples. (See the breath?) Let me go, accordingly. Open the door, and I shall plant myself without conviction to the possibility of particles. Let me dissemble a face onto faces without name. But to whom do I petition?
Has the rain been less frequent this season? It seems it has.
Tomorrow I shall make a mask. Paint, coat, speak. Stand at a table and smirk at the jokes of boys. Something about Sodom, he said. "Some people like that kind of thing..." To this I incline my head.
And now the thunder. Rumble like tires on gravel roads--I remember the time, coming back without a face to wear; I wondered, then, if that was all right. My hand rested on the top of the steering wheel to free up the other--a cold wind took it.
But how I speak! Someone tell these polarities without peripheral abilities to lay themselves on the grass, which is wet from the rain. Rain. This is where I begin.
- - -
(And now I feel the need to write something highly formal and biting i.e. condemning political exchanges that have taken place in course of a discussion on ferns.)
- - -
Rain...
I can see the trees across the street reflected in the wet pavement; I lay back, catch my neck upon the pillow, and lay down forecasts of fire and brimstone lay it on my thigh to delight in what is here. What is it about a day of covering that so incubates one?--insulates with cloud, water. These wide open skies without variation won't let me decide whether I am coated in blue paint, red white all without dimension, or else a thing without form enough for the job.
"There was a garden in the beginning..." Drops fall to the puddles. "Original sin--no I don't think so / Original sinsuality..." What is to be redeemed, after all? The soil finds its way still into my room, the air carrying it. Limbs blow and will. There is no longer need for argument or indecision; with the trickling of liquid on every tissue is the end of apprehension--a sigh. A procedure without rigidity. It sweeps each just a little bit.
"No, I don't think so..." Let the mystics in, the Palestinians without funding, the tulips now in their fullest purples. (See the breath?) Let me go, accordingly. Open the door, and I shall plant myself without conviction to the possibility of particles. Let me dissemble a face onto faces without name. But to whom do I petition?
Has the rain been less frequent this season? It seems it has.
Tomorrow I shall make a mask. Paint, coat, speak. Stand at a table and smirk at the jokes of boys. Something about Sodom, he said. "Some people like that kind of thing..." To this I incline my head.
And now the thunder. Rumble like tires on gravel roads--I remember the time, coming back without a face to wear; I wondered, then, if that was all right. My hand rested on the top of the steering wheel to free up the other--a cold wind took it.
But how I speak! Someone tell these polarities without peripheral abilities to lay themselves on the grass, which is wet from the rain. Rain. This is where I begin.
- - -
(And now I feel the need to write something highly formal and biting i.e. condemning political exchanges that have taken place in course of a discussion on ferns.)