MARVELOUS GATHERINGS
MAKE SUCH LARGE CROWDS
All the come and go of the downside oasis, the
city's own malarkey, running at the edges and
over. This is the real midnight of the soul, dark
night bleakness and all the rest. The man with
the hammer and the workman's vest keeps coming
over to re-light the torch which flares over the
barrel where he is working. A welder's torch so
solid and sound, keeping heat and melting metal.
I don't know why these things are done, nor how -
nothing here inherently even interesting, to tell the
truth. I lean back, watching instead bicycles passing.
-
Long time back, I wrote a message in a book, to the
man in charge of publishing such items - geography
as a guide to the soul, landscape that comes from the
heart. Like an artist, I approached the world as a new
canvas - freshly primed and set to accept any painted
image : thus, I made the place wherein I live. I said
'done', and it was finished and final. My new forever.
-
Now, so many million years later, I'm still here; sitting
back on leather, priming the pump with renewals of
food and drink when needed, and locating the spring
at the source - there, there, with the water bubbling
over. I am speechless, and sound, and sorry and secure:
so many things at once there really ought to be a law.
-
On the sidewalk nearby, a young guy is singing with
an acoustic guitar - both light and whiny those
insipid emotions - some lame song about doves and
love. He sounds too much like a girl for me to ask,
yet I know girls and women are much stronger than
that, anyway and at all times : how am I to challenge
him, to tell him that they hold the power and the
reins? It would all seem so useless to his needs.
Out along the street now, a Mini-Cooper goes by -
a numb-skull blond, with the the top down and
her fair hair blowing freely - passing by,
oblivious to everything here at all.
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