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your butter, your cream
your Italian dream your mustard, your cheese and things I've never tasted take them away--on me they're wasted your whiskey, your import beer, your chocolate while not a bore, don't fit well my life if not found in the store where I live --no, not a farmhouse! is that what you presume? Did you imagine me a Thoreau? really, it's not about thought but how far I'll make my money go and in this sense, we are alike what alienates he and I is the desire to do without felt deep inside here alternates humiliation and pride --on the outside were we conceived to live by only what we need so in this way we came to be forged by force and then by choice cong san sui, kan dao lao! * a Chinese saying that means: a person's character and temperament is already determined at age 3.
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Thought results from sadness
--its absence from gladness the former as varied as types of leaves creates the myriad types of grief the latter as pure as a summer breeze need only but please and does to the depths of the soul but it plants no seed and does not grow, but withers unlike the mountain brook once set on its cause by something so small as a pebble or ravine quickly becomes a mountain stream and then a river and then it churns a course unhindered by will, halted momentarily or contained, but still, the waters await a vengeance as sure as their own pace and while wildflowers do surely grace our presence here and there repulsed by our thoughts and weary of our ways well worn they stay aloof and seem to know better than we know that their beauty is not our own I can be both
bulb and moth knocking against paper shade listener and melody wine and my inebriate self there, a hole in my world in which lives a bird on the balcony is a hammock strung on the verge of summer A creative interpretation
leaves me, a young Werther yearning for the next. This warm afternoon stalled, the tiger plays in the canary nest. Droppings qualify and leave me vexed. --formed by obligation, loyalty of sysyphean grandeur and happenstance --this grand restlessness, this foolishness, this malicious, enduring prophecy! And so was I thus made by my master's hands,
wrapped in feather's, buck tail and silk, designed to mirror his master plan --to trick fate, be clever and aloof --to fain modesty, to elude and delight their eyes, a charm flung here and there. Willed by fate and willing, too be there only praise. And along the way I did see to my left and to my right suspended in another kind of flight those made of the real thing, free from grand illusion, loss or gain, genuine (though mortal). And once!--was it a line left idle? No! 'twas nibbled and taken deep below depositing me thus between nook and stone. And my master he did tug, but from afar, but from afar, and there I lay, and there I lay until the tension ceased and he tugged no more And then I did begin to envy from between my nook and stone those still fluttering high above while waiting for a tremor down below or some violent flood to send me on once more rolling along to where the crayfish crawls ambivalent to any cause to be once more, willed by fate --willed by fate and nothing more. Truth is the result
of intention realized or pursued, twisted, a knarled knot of fate and consequence, the design of desire, demand and desperation, yielding not to good virtue or honesty, instead choosing ambition and confused judgement, as these are the ways of man. Not French, but from a bag.
Not homemade, but from a shelf. Spread with memories of apple butter --a mental eulogy. Not Italian, but off the Burmese border, from the colonies left over and roasted in a wok, poured fresh and hot into an image of Old Glory. Not Virginian, not the finest shag. Not sold in Pound's Innisfree where whores are created for our fancy, kind and sultry, not threatening or dirty. Instead found on the northern plateau, South of the Clouds and warm in my mouth, the source of all that is nutritious. have you ever plundered the things of some other
china crackling under foot, broken carelessly in rage or in spite? dust falling silently from above or rising under your careful gait? clothing scattered as if left in flight? sweaters, hand-knit and the rest tossed, discarded, forgotten or by another pillaged but worn no more? could you resist this calling to go where the voyeur or the cat burglar could before? through dusty parlor, up, up, up creeping steps up to the second floor? passing remains and reminders of past lives --a plow no longer pulled, wine jars dry a ray of light shining through the ceiling for the last time the smell of wine and rotting tangerines all there for our selection this is a planter, that a simple conversation piece this a funny artifact and those wine bowls full of charm --the next round will meet our own lips isn't that the scene from outside our own window? curious isn't it? when kicking and grimacing he sends our vessels rolling and crashing asking "by who's authority?"and like a poltergeist having shaken our world is gone again. iron skeletons
clothed in iron skirts set on giant bladders slide into silent waters and the peach blossoms have fallen Sakura is no longer a virgin but stands in rows a common spinster |
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