MY RUN-ON DISTEMPER
In using words like private carriages, I ride on
every one. My Oldsmobile of a mind traipses
jauntily over ice and snow, gets delirious in
mud and rain, and skims sunningly over tropical
heat and the sweat and the juices produced. I
clamor for doctors where no doctors exist, for
illnesses imagined that nonetheless persist.
Is there any help for such a wanton soul?
-
I've sought madness in the flowers of a hillside
while others were chasing dreams on the same
hillside surface. One way travel in a two-way
moment : watch the magnificent wren and listen
to the woodpecker sour on the wood. Higher
than the balcony, but no higher than the roof,
that's where I saw the man saluting. Life.
Perplexity. Power. Violence. Madness again.
-
Let us close now, children, with a prayer.
Give thanks to something for something,
or - if you'd prefer - give thanks to
anything for everything, something for
anything, however you'd prefer. The oasis
is as yet unpopulated and bare, and we
are still making our way to there.
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