6834. AT THE THOUGHT OF

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?