my eighth pass at them. they never ever. I can't even find them in the thickets so I mow and burn. the clean slope of scalp. the heads of hill. do you wish I had yours under my microscope to jettison your demons? looking kills. it kills like the sun. I love the sun, the way it rises without rancor and goes about the day. underneath the sun, anything I do is just a job, just a manifestation. underneath the sun, the vermin look like vermin, and do not sound as their remembered cries do once the sun is underground. as human.
3 comments:
The word job has turned man's purpose on earth unto toil and drudgery without enjoyment of life. It really works well as a opposing emotionless reaction to the poem's final screams. I think...
Well, you know you're just quite a writer. Got your own little niche there in which to function, and you're functioning like a well-oiled bearing. I very much enjoyed this piece, and would have read more, but it's nearly four p.m., so I guess I better start my day.
P.S. Van Gogh said something about the night-time having more color--or maybe just more interest--and that surprised me because I think of the night in terms of death and horror, for the most part, and am awfully glad for a warm house and electric lights.
"just quite a writer"
"well-oiled bearing"
why, thank you.
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