THE SONG ITSELF

Not a mote is stirring. A horrendous full moon angst shines brightly, silent without cause. Shelves stacked with paintings of brilliant hopes, jars full of attitude and freeze dried disappointments all tumble down in an unbelievable earthquake. Even the imagined pleasure of snuffing ghosts is itself bloodless, dustless, won't bounce.

Four young men at Woolworth's lunch counter in Selma had the courage to do nothing but sit there. Nothing to do at all. It's a state of mind no one inherits. Ketchup, mustard, small white napkins in pop out dispensers, the whole counter top polished to within an inch of its Formica origin. Wordless. The uncaused behind ordinary events.

Edgar Allen Poe, porridge in your eye! Kant is dead now. The whole damn shelf, empty!

A whistling silence pervades the universe, not relative to anything. Birds sing it. Joy? Nothing so shriveled.

A daddy long legs is in the shower pan for a drink. It stumbles as I open the shower door. How to take a shower without drowning it – I put down a finger for it to ride on while taking it outside. Gratitude is a reasonable question, but an imagined dialog is absurd. Something untouched by freedom or joy has preempted. Like birdsong, it speaks for itself.