My life is unravelling in ways both big and small. Once you pull the loose thread, there is no putting it back. And if you don't make the repair right away. . . the whole thing begins to fall apart. I think that is an appropriate metaphor for what is happening now. A rent, then a strategy of ignoring the problem. One day, the fabric is ruined and becomes a rag. That is it. My life has become a rag. A pretty rag.
The frayed edges are everywhere, and so there must come the belated and lengthy repair. When?
I am harried and have no options. Just the stone cold facade of the defeated in the final stand believing only slightly in a possible miracle, of a possible survival, but no longer of thriving.
Figurative or simply vague? This is not a confession, only an explanation. I'm just saying that things aren't right. Perhaps this is an apology at best, an excuse at worst. But it is true.
The light has shifted now coming from the south. Soon the weather will change a bit if not enough. There will be a renewed energy all around. I hope it finds me.
Kinda fits the mood:
ReplyDeletehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVpDOIPx_sY
(my robot word is oedoom...)
ReplyDeletei dunno, i was reading the bible this morning, that is Mr. O'Hara's Complete Poems.
this struck me as something to share somewhere today. how about here.
Jane Awake
The opals hiding your lids
as you sleep, as you ride ponies
mysteriously, spring to bloom
like the blue flowers of autumn
each nine o'clock. And curls
tumble languorously towards
the yawning rubber band, tan,
your hand pressing all that
riotous black sleep into
the quiet form of daylight
and its sunny disregard for
the luminous volutions, oh!
and the budding waltzes
we swoop through in nights.
Before dawn you roar with
your eyes shut, unsmiling,
your volcanic flesh hides
everything from the watchman,
and the tendrils of dreams
strangle policemen running by
too slowly to escape you,
the racing vertiginous waves
of your murmuring need. But
he is day's guardian saint
that policeman, and leaning
from your open window you ask
him what to dress to wear and
to comb your hair modestly,
for that is now your mode.
Only by chance tripping on stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
then, in the perfect variety of
subdued, impeccably disguised,
white black pink blue saffron
and golden ambiance, do we find
the nightly savage, in a trance.
Frank O'Hara
Selavy, something beautiful is always worth doing.
ReplyDeleteA, I prefer Tom Jones to Janis Joplin, I'm afraid. We he really that young?
ReplyDeleteL, Volcanic flesh. Hmmm.
Q, I want to be beautiful.