draft 1

They’re showing up again. Half-crescents lending themselves to godly things, then bending back to hell. I don’t mind either stature. Just as long as it keeps appearing, in one field, out the other, as I lay back, answer things, questions, to the bedposts.

327 post-it notes later, the bed-frame skirts itself in tid-bits. Fragments along the wood-grain; still-bodied image or bone, but nothing fits. No sentences are made. So I stick. One for the morning; one for the minute before the sun dipped below the maple, causing red to crush the dust-mites in the hall; one for the wandering memory of an ex that straddled itself on the mantel while I brushed my teeth; one for the impulse to bruise the shoulder, hanging about on the ceiling; and, numerous repetitions for the thought of knees behind skirts, for wine under the carpet, gathering themselves like twigs for a thatch over my head. A patch. Cause for celebration or a stumble.

Moving into this note, another. Under the ground, the stirs are inevitable. If the telephone rings, my feet pace anxiously. Nothing has stopped the canary-voice, and nothing will. Last night, under the bed of post-it notes, the half-crescents shone their way through, like the plastic stars I stuck on the ceiling, but daintier and perhaps only in my imagination. Nothing cares for nothing if you can’t show it to another and say “look, what I see exists between us.” No, nothing cares for nothing unless the idea of it is tangible.

So the post-it notes are proof. Losing the mind? Left the kettle on. The bubbles in the bath are multiplying themselves over the other, under the other. Perhaps I haven’t clipped my nails. The train schedule has changed and Lord knows if I’d make it on time. Excuses, like these, ring.

Understand, leaving aside the bed-post, the stars stuck on the ceiling, the splintering images, the stirs limit themselves to no geography. Once on a voyage, the crescents, half mad and half gregarious, understand where your state of mind is. Understand when to let go and when to follow. Have a drink.


1 Comment

Filed under metaphysical, musings, philosophy inspired

One response to “draft 1

  1. James

    Excellent rhythm, pacing, ups, downs, etc. I like it.

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