Monday, 2/4/2013

My eyes are tired from
the work I do, and don't

feel much like writing
this thing anyway

but still am.    Still 
damnably
           auto-
biographical     too

as if this all turned
on myself
    (instead of the great
mechanism -- not mechanism
    but interminable
                   growth
even in death)

a record
of days. Revolutions 
                  orbits
and obits 
around the damned

white star, the great whale
around which we all pirouette
heliocentric,
      although once we wandered
the ridged top of a giant tortoise 
did we not?

oh well; it begins again
inexorable
      even in darkness
day


Random lines from my bookshelf:

             There is no other way than start and finish
and begin again and again. At least none that I know of
or have seen. One day they went westward and that was the
beginning. Now they go back and forth and there is no
beginning. It would not be so bad if they didn't want it
that way, but they do, they do, they do seem to want it
just that way.

             Without small words.
             Today.  

---Lew Welch, "A Matter of Organ Stops and Starts," 
in Ring of Bone
  

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