Elements of truth clash in my recitation of the yellow sun done in the grand manner when I was alone. The mirrors shake under the fluorescent lights, blessing thunder-lit music that touches the structure. Those at the back of the universe are listening carefully. Behind the elms the well-masoned wall comforts the streets with its quiet music. That the universe is a poetry is agreeable and wild, as wild as thunder and birches and thoughts of morning. Glistening with victory, the glass panics (at great cost). One person is weary, remembering the unconquered and half-asleep newspaper headlines.
The moon now floating distantly burns my one hour of contemplation out of October with a rude math. Thoughts are crushed poisonously by the wrong temperature. October is a meandering–a street without dreams, a wrong way. Your heart has still wondered what speeds everything. It is a good, long sequence and vision. This is the now we have been needing. Our need for Orange descends through the woods just below capable Orion, and Bootes, ghost with a shield. Gladly warming your hands by the crackling fire you are. A tin twilight waits for you–muddled confrontation, a blue Venus.
Rain’s not quite quit. Green at the intersection says go. I remember nights like this in other cities when I thought of myself as the wanderer. Especially I remember Decatur, with its twenty-four hour eggroll shop that resembled a motorcycle garage. Intersections of individuals are just as important to us as memorable street and road intersections. Our cheerfulness has not failed to impress the back-broken night. Buckets of rain–what is there to say about that? I’m just being difficult. Beyond night, what is out there? Your reputation for coping is cracking. Scene requiring a moon spun in.
I got up and took a bath and got dressed, took my wallet and keys and said Hi to Donna and went to Winchells and said Hi to Bari and Paul. Then I talked to Paul and read the newspaper and drank coffee and ate an apple fritter and read meditations from Marcus Aureleus from the Harvard Classics and thought about his pessimism concerning humanity and looked at three pretty girls and was amused to remember a joke in the music of Alice Cooper. Then I thought about aging and a dream I had about my girlfriend Debra! Debra! Darling!
In her last moment as a waitress and in her first moment before becoming someone who takes phone messages during night shift for an answering service, she thought of me, the one she always called dildo. I thought her hair was teased up and cute and I forgave. She was good on the State basketball team, and I decided I liked thin girls. It is time to dream of you, my love. We even cornered each other out by the traffic light. I even showed you family pictures, you even let me refill my coffee gratis. Bombard with kisses my pillows.
“The World Moves On the Back of a Turtle”
(Old rabbinical saying)
Arrange Suzan’s ribbons in a thousand ways–there is time, for the world moves on the back of a turtle! See how reluctantly sunlight and shadow move each day up and down sidewalks. You have time to tell of your love, carefully to mention each article of it, for the world moves on the back of a turtle. You have time to listen to a child’s mind growing, and very much time to comprehend and observe how each of a flower’s petals is formed. You would rush your words, you would have to rush them, if it were any different.