“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,” said William Blake in his “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell” (1790-1793). And later says, “A fool sees not the same tree as a wise man sees,” a leavening thought, where leaves allow for us to see the sky and its Cyclopean eye in easy earned middle class moderation, where all things are divided by two.
In the evening the sun is placed over 60th and Belmont walking down the middle of the street into the powdery scene I snap a few pics with my phone cam:
Earlier in yard I cut feather grass as dry as a lint trap and the spent summer daisies cringed crinkled into dust as I yanked on the stiff stems like the barber at my gone to seed hair a mess she said.
End summer evenings still too hot to walk but coming of Fall equinox portable air conditioner quiet fan spins cooler nights tiny blue eyes charge to pay to keep cool to sleep.
So it goes Vonnegut said so it goes around and around on old vinyl the needle finishes its drive toward the center the turntable still spinning the needle clicking back and forth wanting to stop but caught in the groove.
No one understands Universe least of all physicists who must talk a taught tongue while the rest of us find rhymes and rhythms as we dance around and around until the moon goes down as Chuck Berry said around and around until the sun goes down and the moon comes up.
Everywhere I look I see signs of the cross in telephone poles at the busy intersection of the homeless and the morning commuters in the brow of the woman wearing the human billboard advertising her three kids and out of work husband a veteran and a nice guy trying to get back on his feet after stepping on a landmine at the bottom of the cross and I don’t doubt it and wonder if she’ll take the afternoon off and drop the double sawbuck just handed her all in one place.
I am tempted but the cross at the local church remains hidden behind a giant plastic boastful Jesus his coiffed hair combed and sprayed by the altar ladies with their flowers holy water and broken nails who come and go they have come and gone and still they come and go and carry their crosses quietly and secretly and do not advertise their own club afflictions and anyhow don’t allow admittance of my cross.
Every Friday at three in the afternoon the altar ladies take down the real Jesus and put up the plastic one and Sunday after masses they hang the original back.
Meantime at the bottom of the telephone pole at the crossroads the homeless gather to disperse the day’s take and affirm nothing is finished the kingdom never comes but the will is always done daily bread is not hard to come by not nearly so hard as forgiveness of debts and trespasses or deliverance from evil.
Inwait watching listening to what he wants to hear then to critique that lesson passably betraying purpose occasion audience intent the critic in wait teases out the objections passive aggressively indirectly disconnects the circuit breaks the circle of care
the critic lies in wait for pretentious chichi affectation of what is stretched thin to impress takes a back seat alone in the cynical corner and enjoys the play
meanwhile the husband who hopes the woman who kneels knows prayer the child who tries to please and fails drama takes place in an empty house
words linked absurdly together like barbed wire avoid likes but attract comments like flies to sweet sticky paper
happens all the time you who always those who never it argues thus near dusk all at once it comes out without revision without a second thought
that’s ok it’s not easy hitting a baseball being social attending holy mass body and blood sitting alone writing a poem being a critic
keeping the secret watchdog beware keeps it chained to his heart barking champing at the bit coughing up crud it’s not easy being a critic lying in wait taking the bait
still the sun also rises and climbs and falls but too hot too cold too close too far away too bright too long too short a day for the critic on the hunt for something to say
When sound is noise that murmurs gurgle and talk crabbed rambles and gabbles When susurrus of water shuts off clang bang and no breeze blows blossoms and all fall long leaves crisp prematurely dull and grey When thoughts are crickets in a dark repeat and inanimate objects won’t cooperate When strings stretch and snap out of tune and ears fill full of hardened yellow wax Then it’s time here for a nap or a blue beer for there’s been a near miss missio dear.
The sun a mini strawberry delight in a field of vanilla smoke tonight as it falls into a debauchery of ice creamery I dive under a tsunami of chocolatey covered cherries the size of bowling balls while this reverse osmosis produces a raspberry spearmint julep which is to say hold the bourbon and bring on the rosewater of camphor lime and take away the six pack of IPA and keep the ice cream coming in this the ice creamery bathtub of sobriety.