AND THE DAY EMBERS NACREOUSLY LIKE AN OLD PEARL INTO SLOW HONEY And the day embers nacreously like an old pearl into slow honey. The pivot at the end of things, but it’s really a hinge. Two wings on the bird. Not two. Like your eyes. Like the sun and the moon. One image with an optically symmetrical spine down the middle, snakefire, vertebrae, chakras, the ida and the pina, dark matter, neuronic synapses fraying like deltas of roots emptying into the starmud of the river systems like mandrakes and ginseng out in the tiger lily woods of May. Evolution, like God, speaks from a burning bush. In the valley of Tuwa. Where the sage brush spoke. Concerning God at this time of the day. It’s really none of my business what the silence wants to say to itself without metaphors and mithals to compare. I’m a poet among humans. I declare. It’s getting dark. It’s getting dark. Too dark to see. And then the stars emerge. Star clusters of wild asters in the September high hay. Even when you can’t see them behind the clouds. They’re there. Luminous in the numinous night. Shining like a clean rain drop on the lip of gutter that’s washing its mouth out with stars. Gargle. Swill. Swallow. There are great blessings in profanity. Holy shit. The stars. Redolent with wonder. Astounding immensities. Abysses. The beatific afterbirth of all that demonic procreation. Squandered on the night as if somebody were throwing jewels disdainfully across a basement sales table by the roulette wheel. Seven come eleven. Or snake eyes. Make it real. Make it hurt. The way you feel. Metastatically ecstatic. Pierced through the heart by a spear, an arrow, a thorn, a nail, a horn, a work of art, a compass needle on a GPS construction site, syringes of light, and let the silence speak up for itself. Resort to metaphors. Tat tvam asi. You are that. And similes galore. You’ re the whole show. I’m sitting in the lap of a vast Kafkaesque intelligence that’s read a lot of Ovid. And the stars in my mind are trying to teach the fireflies to shine right down on nothing as they always have so you can feel the greatest emptiness in the world ignite. And the waterbirds, the waterstars, the waterbards, o yes, take flight. PATRICK WHITE
Posted on: Sat, 23 Nov 2013 21:44:56 +0000