Into the coracle I bundle my tormented night-sweated revelations, memorized mea-culpas of dreamed delirium, and row, row, row my fat arsed self across Acheron — the wind’s unsailable.
Waveless glass, though more like oil, the bastarded vessel, bent in the making — never true — slogs and dies, slogs anew.
What seafaring lay makes the task more a bliss? “I shall never this way travel again,” comes to mind. Is it?
Is it a veritable song, or more fevered my brain’s fantasy? It signifies not if… if the laborer throws unction under the tongue! The craft is heavy laden, and I am ready to drop them over into the swirling orb of the green deep.
* * *
One never knows what will come from gazing into the Pound Cantos.
…and the lines and the lines and the lines making squares making waves naked waves unmasked waves slippery when wet the rivers wet the streets wet the rain sifts the rain sifts the drain slips wet lines draining waves wet drains lining drains wet waves squares slipping slippery wet runs together straight lines together lines trees dripping waves breaching their frames echoed lines wave wetly drains repeated lines wetly wave rain squares wave as I drain — and the lines and the lines …ah, the lines
Paris has irrevocably changed; it’s very clear. With their heart broken, a hole scorched in its center. Stone edifices will tumble, in time they will crumble — but wasn’t this more than clay? Lives were changed, were taken, were damaged, were transformed…
No one leaves Paris — Paris that weeps now — no one leaves Paris without an impression of the lady.
Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless Yet drinks the thirst from our lips, solid as echo… (Canto VII)
I have eaten the flame. (Canto XXXIX)
A corner table, Taqueria Too Hot for Comfort, just outside of Arena, New Mexico. Waiting on Fajitas al Pastor, and another Dos Equis. Munching chips and salsa, squeezing lime into the stone wear bowl to kill a little of the heat. My fault. I asked in my best TexMex, “Ajima! ¡Más caliente por favor!” “My own damned fault,” as the theologian said. Here comes the HausFrau with the tortillas, a boy behind her carrying the sizzling pan of meat and threes. Cholula in the condiments rack, a side of nuclear peppers. I’ll be paying for dinner all night long as I watch the stars spin their tale.
* * *
Day one, NaPoWriMo 2019. An ounce of Pound for inspiration… and not a drop of tequila, I promise. Sad thing is, the voice is recognizable in parts of the West.