Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Sumer is icumen in

Experimented with the tanka form the other night— reversing syllable count to 7-7-5-7-5 for the opening verse. A simple idea, yet opens a different manner of thought, a whole new perspective. In this fashion a more abstract poem is laid out. Less clinical and less static.
On the elevator the following morning the lift shuddered midway to the top floor— pulling out an instant flashback when I flew from New Orleans to Des Moines for college, my first solo trip, the weight of the plane's cabin shuddering with occasional turbulence. Then a half second later, a flash to a pseudo prediction of a plausible future: myself lying flat in a gurney at an undeterminable age, being transported from home to hospital, some random emergency—

—a blend of three time streams, braided events of identity transposed and misplaced—

ghosts in the machine:
elevator • airplane • gurney
present • past • future
individual—blurred interior
Summer solstice. The longest day of the year.

Feel like I should do something pagan-isque: dance around a bonfire in a mask of a Picasso-styled animal— or maybe quietly compose prayers on strips of rice paper, releasing them over the canals by the house. It is a want of acknowledgment of the time passing: letting the child realize he is growing up, recording a sense of memory for future recollection. Something other than the mundane ritual of everyday existence.
244 / nightmares of blood on your hands, rooted from the back garden, stones in your pockets— you wake— dirt under your nails, a sense of regret
245 / hands curling on sheets, then uncurling, hesitant, lost between action and sleep— as the wind rattles the windows, shakes the whole house—

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