Ethical Dative

Home of Branded Fictions

Journal of the Vague Years

Part 32

Wandering Jew 5
Last sun soaks the low west in dull sienna. The sky is soaked with the last sun, the deadend of the day. I am not a repeater. Rhetorical circles under the eye. You are different from what I had in mind; not a nightmare of facts; not a plague of giggles. To eat love from the shell. I am a sickness that needs cutting out of the air I breathe / live on. I assume something came of it other than what I saw firstborn, something more than my assumption. I assume that water did not reign eternal, was not incontrovertible; that it slackened and pooled once issued from the lungs of the drowned. I assume something came of it more than I came to see. Creely: nothing is all there is. "God knows / nothing is competent, nothing is / all there is." ("The Immoral Proposition"). No one is all there was. You are as nasty an old man as the best of us. I walk into a room white with disarray, cold with pain. The kiss of cold. Drunk: Tight, try not to be tight. Give the nightmare time to wake up to being dreamed. Breathe your liquorish last and play asleep. Until you are your last hope. Somehow to say the tree as loud as itself, how it has found red under the cold kiss. The cold kiss has puffed it red. The long sessions attending mismanagement of pornographics. Now a long session of unleafing to disillusioned winter skies. Fracas of leaves. I am not prepared for anger. There is a fierce way for night to fall cold as goodbye.
Psycho-physiologic gastro-intestinal reaction...
Schells 542-4419
Tight, try
not to be tight
give time
to the night-
mare to wake up
being dreamed
until you are
your liquorish last
last hope
and play asleep.
The hearty dark escaping upward into light. Cold as waking up. Stroked by the loam. That hefty Kelvinator we lifted from an empty kitchen and paid someone gone ten dollars for is one of fewer and fewer artifacts of us that clutters the mind I look over my shoulder with. A pure person pisses people off. Spring is an orgasm. Cut out my mind, hope. I am a sickness in the air I breathe, going so nowhere. Dimestore twelve-by-twelve pumpkin-color rug. Twelve feet of dimestore rug. Rickety writing table I stripped and painted white. Coffee and end-tables danced; everything danced. Trees, you are in such danger. The possum on the porch. World, you are danger. Meat-eater / Beef-eater, man in cherry flush. Shit in a rill. Waltzing work table. The scarred grammar-school table that gently waltzed under my writing arm. The somber dresser. Bulling snaps of frosty wind have bitten off my tongue. My tongue has fallen to the jaws of snappy cold. Two mouths hanging empty from the war. One asks why, the other why not?
Horrified by what I eat. Would rather write poetry than be a poet. Our lives have come dangerously together. We are in high danger of involvement. Slackened and pooled from the lungs of the drowned the messianic water ditches their lives, carries their lives to the sea. In the danger of loneliness we involve ourselves, tangle in each other's hair so that to part would tear it out. Carries their last breath seaward. The trees: I am tall and definite in the brittle light that breaks on the glistering creek rapids. The glissando of minute creek rapids. I can't write with your vocabulary, man. I've got to write with mine. Glissando of a rapid creek chimes with the brittle light breaking on boughs. I am tall and definite in the clearing. The glissando of creek rapid chimes in brittle light breaking on boughs. I am attached to a creek. A prophecy of water.
Slick road, a skid, a waltz. Nearly killed yesterday the two of us. Must get further away from it. The habit of you is hard sense. Tree: I gnaw the last light before oncoming night. Season of expressionless face when I've not even a lip to flap, the lines of my face are left. I stiffen for freeze, tense into my defenses. The treetops flared. Cut it into language. Stomach clamped on grease; on a buckle. Hardship has let out his belt three notches. Where your whiskers lead you must follow. More involved than mode: excrescenses of the soul. I rode a god to heaven. I keep drowning in that look. My life concerns another. Breathe deeply at a dark window. Tentacular. The frayed edges. Let me get out of my skin into something comfortable. Keep the cold peace in my soul. No heats. Get on the ocean, clean my lungs. I'll change into a cactus. I don't want to talk across doors. Having read the night again with open mouth. Sleep is a book.
"It's awfully easy to write abstractly, without attaching much meaning to the big words. But the moment you have to express ideas in the light of a particular context, in a particular set of circumstances, although it's a limitation in some ways, it's also an invitation to go much further and much deeper." (Aldous Huxley)
"Poetry is form, and the wooing and seduction of form is the whole game... To write a poem is like trying to catch a lizard without its tail falling off." (Durrell)
"I think it is not understood to what a limited extent artists have any experience at all, you know. People imagine them to have absolutely boundless experience. In fact, I think that they are as nearsighted as moles, and if you limit your field to your own proper capabilities it is astonishing how little you know about life... I think the magnification of gifts magnifies the defects as well. One of the things I have strongly is the defect of vision. For example I can't remember any of the wild flowers that I write about so ecstatically in the Greek islands. I have to look them up. And Dylan Thomas once told me that poets only know two kinds of birds at sight; one is a robin and the other a seagull, he said, and the rest of them he had to look up, too." (Durrell)
"It's only with great vulgarity that you can achieve real refinement, only out of bawdry that you can get tenderness. If you rule out bawdry entirely, it's astonishing how anemic your love lyric becomes." (Durrell)
"I find art easy. I find life difficult." (Durrell)
We all screamed. Crying intellectual tears. Once more I must say my no side. To the noxious company. I have my yes, I have my no. Pent-up, unhappy (treasonably so) women. Nothing to say or say it with. Silence is accusing. What you like will eat you up. Here, there, a bewilderment of rain (wilderness of gray) (tick)-tocking off the roof gutters onto something -- some tympanum that sounds the waters' measure of time. I have a stone head.

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