4015. TAGGED AND TITLED

TAGGED AND TITLED

I've gone flooey thinking about you.

I've scaled the most comfortable oases I

could find, and only now have left the sphere

of thinking : obsessed and broken, like that

cow-shaped milk-pourer with a broken spout.

Everywhere I turn, the buildings have pride and

attitude, the sky looms, and even the taxi-drivers

scurry about wanting recompense and attention.

There's no extra card in my deck, the hand I've been

dealt is an unlucky one, and the dealer - that big guy

standing before me - wants everything back.

Oh Lord now! Where can I turn?

-

Outside the window, on a day it should be cold and

frosty, the air smells like sixty degrees above zero.

How fortunate is that? Do I wish to smell flowers and

cupcakes again? All those women's perfumes that

waft through the gracious and florid air? God, God,

how I hate the artificial gardens, these Edens with no

context, these paradise-warrens with no place to sit.

-

'Open the book, my fellow, turn to page 79. Read again

that psalm that has no meaning, those words that go

nowhere, jumbled on the page. And then - instead

of all that - listen to this : The fire consuming the

bush will narrow the point of distinction and, then

advancing towards you, bring a torching wisdom

to all that you do, and you will want for nothing

at all. But first, you must tell all the people...'