Admiring man, an enterprise oneself inclined to leap, or…
Faithfully stride, longing here and looking up, straight, forgetting along
the way what I probably never knew anyway. Knowing now I stand a touch
dazzled from brief stroll over lawned/floral lays dividing Park Ave’s north
and southbound lanes. Over which I smoked, yes. Leavening the head, say,
suffusing the ocular capillaries, apprising—
The op to, well, rise from littered ground, at times, aboundingly. Easing
over hasty living, which I seldom do. But when I do…
Quotidian acts trump the epic, as they always have—but to Thales—that
reverer of eau not even a vowel. Of whom a measure has yet been said as
THIS, a measure of events—haps, exploits, faits, whatever—etcetera—objects,
ephemera, bread—and I read some, baking some of it—wrote—writing to font you
see, maybe seeding epiphany, coming and playing part regardless on revolving
omnia man cuts and pastes, to waste and to relax on, mostly consciously,
anymore, tingling as the phone’s rang blank, if variously—and the winds the
airwaves smother did. Blow the moons glow from grid to the ensuing act, if
the ultimate: IX.
*
Nine O two Monday morning. Another. Airs outside humid as post-tempest
Tallahassee inducing me to perspire while I scratched a schedule per day in
the spirit of iterating for advancement—my agenda. Which I’ve yet to draw
out, curiously—leaving me planning to void, one might think. Me? If
thinking’s the word, for it was clear that I endeavored to provide these
lines to the light of day. O, it was lucid I sought t’allay any fears one
might have that the lines comprising cosmos have no reason t’align, strung
per any ego to press, say, such directionless ode as this. The essence of
it, here, was downright hyaline and this would have to do as clarity was
wondrous—even if induced, if not especially. It no thing at all, dear
clarity. And the rarities composing this homogeny, hell—
*
Stood across from the noblest top in NYC’s silhouette of building steeples,
New York Life—which I’ve Met at six-foot tall. White as the limestone of
Empire, if yet an empire. Yet! For one, because I’m hired. And I burn
like a Fresno forest, and spend like a sprung-drunk Hasid, and drink ten
times the aforesaid Hasid could never without surrendering his curls. And I
didn’t get good grades nor do I eat that well, nor do I pray. But before I
get away from myself—
Of those steeples—an assessment beginning with, say, Chrysler’s flaking
joust, which can pierce an ear, I hear. And the gilded eight or ten
unparallel planes of otherwise twinklescape huing alloy to otherwise
rowbulbs starking behind pyrex windows rasterizing nightmare ol’ Henry M
deemed air-conditioned. A scene seeing me leaning across from the noblest
top of NYC’s sweeping skyline beneath a wondrous sky, beside graveyards in
blue-glowing Glendalé at dawn through which gazer remained awake on a
compound star, violet as my cheeks became.
*
As you might imply, I was beginning this ago, then presaging now when I
relate from portions of buildings a day in which I prepared to further frame
the epiphanies. Like, say, the sense I had inside as I passed the
wind-crinkling aluminum dent tableau as door I spied across the Lane over
which open laid a scape of lines, none straight—rhododendrons and wilting
roses, Euclidean plates in three dimensions not composing but framing—
States we perceive consciously, I love that word—
Feng shuing objects, equating. Relating blank as v, x and/or c to inchoate
quotient for the sake of meaning science, progress, nuclear lasery,
whatever. Oft preeningly, as evidenced here on Earth where even the bad die
young—like the good and the homely for the sake of sating nature’s need to
procreate. Balancing the account that Zeno knew as kosmos.
