I’ve been away a very long time. I’ve gone to heaven and again. The hostile folly of the handmaiden’s rope twisted in my arms.
The flaming spirit of the dervish is on this whale stomach of mine. I’ve no sugar for these youngsters. I’ve no blood for these youngsters.
I’ve no extra hallelujahs for them. I’ve to return to Jerusalem for that. Say you’ll accompany me to America the place a distant cousin lives together with her olive-skinned youngsters and Mexican husband. Maintain me secure.
Maintain me heat along with your powers. Your redemptive powers and sacrificial lamb, you, you, you blind Christ.
You a sleeping Jesus. The lounge is a baby. A hurricane. The lounge is holy. Is obsessive about me, crammed with manifesting elders and clergymen. I placed on a fur coat. Sit in my automotive within the storage conscious of shellfish rising previous, rising within the chilly sea, rising wings of their pure habitat. Rising like boy and woman into man and spouse.
Conscious of Whitman, Sexton, Plath, Lowell, his Bishop. Pound. Amongst the cans of baked beans, behind the pilchards.
Within the kitchen cabinet there’s the park bench the place I can see useless individuals and grandchildren. The place I feed the geese bread. In my mom’s home life right here is pressing. I name her nomad. Stingy. Alchemist. Secure home. She calls me blue. She calls me tragic nun. She needs me to drown although I come armed with an escape plan. I make her tea (a hemlock). The sugar pot comes crashing down onto the ground. There goes my hero.
In my cranium there are poets and playwrights. Oh, I’m now not younger.
I yell, I kick, I scream. I’m not in the best mind set. There is no such thing as a one who loves me. I’ve lovers. They inform me I’m stunning. I sleep with them, share with them the key language of flowers. I share my seed and river-harvest with them. They by no means keep these lovers. They’re at all times on the transfer. They’re at all times debasing me in a myriad of clandestine methods.
I solely know what love is after I’m in mattress with the sea-river. Maintain him, maintain my man down so he doesn’t disappear from sight. I’m turning into my father. Contained in the iceberg there are three dawns. They comprise the self, the reality and the divine. They don’t know the method. They don’t sing, can’t speak, their black veins, their neon mild’s gasoline don’t know something concerning the undertaking administration of the solar, that there’s a giant world on the market. The fireplace of the celebs, the inexperienced velvet of the grass. The good obstacles in my method.
France and Spain. The clumsiness of the monk fish in my arms. There’s the arithmetic and science of bipolar. The work ethic of the cell. Worth-based sacrifice. Change isn’t instantaneous. No person debriefed the planets about this. Possibly they aren’t all activated but.
They’re lacking Neil Armstrong’s excellent rating. They don’t know his excellent solutions. I’m dandelion-greedy for the stirring, the heartfelt and the gorgeous. I do know this funding goes to an excellent trigger.
The rest would have been boring, holding onto a lifeline.
I consider the bee, the drone, the queen all rebels within the cell. I get that feeling of the breaking of the daybreak into mild and day. That is for each English trainer that I’ve ever had. The age of innocence of all about Eve, Eden, all concerning the rib, eye, the masculinity of Adam. Whereas I fade away. Relaxation, relaxation. You’ll be able to see it in my face, hers, his, all of the infinite beauties of the universe became sonnet. I’m turning into my mom. No ache. No achieve.
No motion. No plan. My mom is the snow jewel. I’m leaving my sorrows behind.
Planting them on Salt Hill. No moles burrow there for worry of turning into Lot’s spouse. I discover the seagull wanting again at me by a crack. I simply wish to keep in mattress all day lengthy now that Rabbit’s gone into time for all of eternity to show into atoms and particles. I’ve to chaperone childhood. I’m struggling, struggling, overcoming. I consider the concrete particular element of his passing. Watch the kitchen clock on the wall. He received’t be coming round right here once more. He’s without end younger. However that’s not who I wish to be. God decides.
My mom stated. I really feel like hell. Typically ache is artwork. Typically artwork is ache. You by no means got here to see me within the hospital. I requested you, my mom requested you, nonetheless you didn’t come.
There’s pity and worry and catharsis in that. I take into consideration age, and mountain and actuality. I don’t wish to assume anymore of individuals leaving my life earlier than I do. You’re my meta-lament.
I’ll miss you day by day of the remainder of my life. Consider what we spoke of final. I nonetheless have a lot determining to do. What do you do when somebody throws a spear at you.
You write a tune to consolation the brokenhearted, you could have a dialogue with a playwright, or an mental or a number one mental or an influential mental or a Christian chief.
All I’m is that this tortured loneliness, this unhappiness, this unfulfillment for a second.
Whenever you write a tune, you turn into a poet. You reside in beautiful agony if you’re a poet however if you sing there’s the start, the delivery, the escape, the triumph and the return. I want I may say that to be in a category of your personal is a divine romance.
I want I may say I used to be completely satisfied, I used to be beloved, I’ve a daughter, I’ve a son. All I really feel is devastated. What’s particular person therapeutic, what’s non-public retreat, it’s a uncommon view and a perspective seldom seen or acknowledged. It’s a story of three kings and a portrait.
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