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I watch high-striking jets dissect the compass rose. I burn phone minutes with long distance directions, gauging Santa Fe, Canberra, Berlin as destinations. I've lost the sense of this ragged touring. I drain each day like a river through the delta and sleep in four hour blocks, dreaming beneath a hobo moon. An Arrangement of Necessities I write at home and the war is somewhere else. ***
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I make a dry martini. I take a drier tone and ready for the day. As I deconstruct the fable of the Chinese mare it becomes a metaphor of melancholy -- a merging of damaged wire and mathematics; it becomes the needful, sighing guide inside the minutes of every myth. I draw no line between my needs and someone else's goods. The dimes I steal are pooled as red coins of dispensation. "Give me the $20 suffering," I say at Sunday criticism. Irony is my favorite emotion. It is my center as my voice. I worship at a tree of crows. I marvel at the stammering as I view the words of God.  |
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