AT THE THOUGHT OF
Myriads of storm-clouds entice these propositions, and I
have nowhere else to go. In 1974 I walked Elmira College
daily, only to find myself caught in a campus of want. I
was not entirely there, yet I wrote those endless papers, and
made sure I formulated endless thoughts. I had some form of
formlessness, and haunted artistic corridors too. Looking for
line and form, finding the scent of color and oils.
People seemed to think I was a magician - finding that open
coil with which to energize my heart, shocking myself into
existence, landing on Earth, from some other place indeed.
Quickly, and oh, I learned all those other languages and all
those other tongues. Each day, in the postal lobby of the
college's mailbox hall, I picked up my copy of Granma,
most faithfully, and read my Daily Call. Red Marxist
menace papers and chatted with Mao Tse Tung. For
nothing at all that either, except a drawing by Andy
Warhol, or a hush and a shudder from a visiting
Rod Serling, who himself was soon dead.
What was I to do? And at the
thought of what else?