That Internal World
Following the path of that internal world, vast capillary realm of blood & silence, where what language has not yet been born, the inchoate (the egg), surges, floats toward nativity, if we listen well enough. Suddenly someone interrupts, “Quiet today,” she says in the lobby housing only the two of you, her words unknowingly loud, even from a feeble, old voice simply trying to be friendly, social, at which you stare, still trying to follow the bodily, corporeal path toward other language than the obvious, she repeats, “Quiet,” with a certain emphasis she imagines missed in the first address. Nod your agreement that it is, or was, depending on the sound the pounding circulatory system offers up like pulse’s surf against the skeletal rock, or cold philosophical gardens growing slowly in advent light, & electrical snow squalls in grey-sky cerebrum under Arctic tundra skull.
At the End of Writing
When earlier I stayed up late to watch the fullest full moon at perigee rise dripping-wet out of the Atlantic, or stood counting lightning strikes as they approached until one struck the roof of the house two doors down, now I catch her entering the same ocean, gingerly, beyond waist-deep, & dunk, her little seasonal ritual she equates with renewal & ablution. Yet it’s purely secular & sensual, & of course, sexual: just ask that gang of half-naked athletes prancing & galloping faster than the line of horses I saw across the channel, slowed down by saddles & riders. Open space, freedom, a sense of gratitude at her directing attention my way, & a bit of peace, almost tranquility, similar to the way Kerouac got to it after weeks of delirious struggle on the opposite side of this broad continent at the end of writing in Big Sur, just running out of words.