I'm having one of those evenings every song sounds great.
Someone's out there preparing us for silence, and then silence,
and then someone else jumps in to prepare us
for the next silence. It's beautiful. And it can't end there
so it doesn't. There is suddenly no concept for end! All's preparation
for more all! A "mor-al" of your story every three or so minutes.
It annoys me that I'm not having more mysterious thoughts
as everyone else around me wisps. We take a personality quiz
and everyone gets astronaut but me. Neil Armstrong, for instance,
was a mysterious creature, and he took it to the grave.
It's the idea of personality evaporating, never to be heard from
or seen again. Stay calm, John. You're best when you're calm.
We'll just have to wait it out, surrounded by perfumed roses,
a kind of Technicolor hug for the soul, if only someone could find it.
*
Like the sublimation of snow into vapor that skips melting
that for some reason caused people in the South this week
to think that it was a government plot. It's never
what you think it's going to be. Or maybe you just had
weird expectations. All these ladders keep flipping,
so that some get further up without much effort and others
continually find themselves starting over, and everyone a little dizzy,
and/or nauseous. Like this morning, I read something
about Elizabeth Bishop and thought of Emily Dickinson
instead, and grew terribly confused. The future is quiet,
and filled with your absence. "Ooo la la" and "shelang-shelang"
helps. "Wild nights, were I with thee," and "rainbow
rainbow rainbow," helps. We're not so far off. I've been
watching the clouds again. Their shapes all look like weapons.
