“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.
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.
Like things that go bump in the dark night these sounds are not quite like what we think they are like old bent and dusty books shelved in empty house plant pots like books of poems used to start tomato seeds in hopeful spring before the last frost shoves the soil over and worms awake.
Just so like I jump into the fray with big plans for a newsletter about things that are not empty hotels atop sidewalks full of homeless and fat cats full of fur surrounded by mice.
On Instagram I post a skinny guitar and instantly hit the delete button and just as quickly bring it back like an usher flicking the auditorium lights on and off like a strobe light.
And so so on I flicker and go with the flow now here now there always nowhere in the act of writing, of whirling στρόβος twist about and birl about.
I go for a walk around the block and step on a glob of adhesive caulking and my shoe picks up like a magnet all manner of muck.
Which like a bad sign awakens me to be more cautious of where I step like into a newsletter and so so on I doodle here while the sun comes closer more and more near like a full moon on this the hottest night of summer.