Man Into Air

In this Haibun the relationship of the poetry to the prose is what I call parallel: the poems do not intensify or illustrate the prose; they come from a parallel world and complement the prose:

 

ablaze with light

a ferry throbbing

into the black night

Here is a man – as light as a sparrow. The skin round his mouth is hard as a beak. I balance the nipple of the nylon drinking cup between his lips feeling his arm like an anglepoise against my side. His gasping widens the splay of my fingers on his ribs. He won’t bother with today’s local election results floating on the radiowaves like ghosts through the prison walls and he won’t ever again taste a drink or confront with his withering intelligence an obstinately literal Prison Officer. He concentrates on something inward – nothing as capricious as thought, but a landscape, perhaps, an arid boundless place where the pain helps focus his attention on watching the distance beat by beat.

in blue space

a cloud

evaporates

This is the Winchester Prison Hospital Wing, a rattling dungeon of Bedlam shrieks, dog-ends and sputum-tissue, neglected by a cheery Trusty, and a smarmy nurse. I go to find the SMO. I say that he’s nominated me next-of-kin, can she tell me the prognosis – and realise with astonishment that she hates everybody, even me. She refuses him morphine, sneers, “He’s devious, he’s not dying.” I stagger out of her office, the words she spat ringing in my ears. “I’ll give him painkillers when I’m good and ready.” Fergy deals with it better than I do. He’s had four decades to learn. I am deeply ashamed that I cannot care for him, that I have to leave him there.

tugged half under

mooring buoy

in the ebb tide

At the newsagent’s I puzzle over what a man is: How to be a Sex God is one cover story, followed by Shooting Machine-Guns with the Rednecks! and The Berk Who Lost Two Million! The cool names are Brett Easton Ellis and Irvine Welsh, and the photo feature is Autoerotica, (pin ups of cars, I think).

His father was a man – a hard-drinking wife-beating friend-brawler, who thrashed Fergy with a belt-buckle. He cooked Fergy’s pet rabbit and forced it down the child’s soft mouth. But you can’t refuse your father; his alcohol and violence rushed up Fergy’s capillaries, entryists, pickling his heart, and erupted on Christmas Day as the drunken boy of twenty-one killed his girl bride.

moon and sea all night long force six

Fergy has never had a sniff of a BMW; he scorns the men whose cells are ripe with girly pix, men “in thrall to bimboism,” (that’s his phrasing, and he calls it “self-inflicted bondage, the injustice which they have imposed upon themselves,” in his gravelly mining-town Geordie). Money does not cascade through his hands in jackpot imagery: he earns four pounds sixty two pence each week. But he is a stone in the shoe of a Governor, indomitable with murderous convicts, and bracing to my bland goodwill. Over forty years of incarceration he has found the irreducible core of a man: mind, and will. There is no likeminded thinker to appreciate this. He tells me, “No-one will ever know I lived.” His speech is cast in Victorian prose from the prison library, poured through the pursed vowels and rotten lungs of County Durham, an eloquence finely wrought and strange: “I am a caricature devoid of humour…”

labouring

through a patch of brilliance

the tiny boat

Fergy is in Heaven. He is not conscious that for his last hours he has been released from his Life Sentence into a hospice and lies in a bed of lovely linen in a brightly painted room, flowered and sunned through rose curtains, and he is touched with motherly care, perhaps for the first time, by a great exponent of the Hippocratic oath whose kindness opens the sluice on my heart’s pity as none of the callous neglect ever did. It is goodness that makes us cry, not suffering. Fergy is Christian and I murmur in his ear about angels and light. His body now is stiff as saltcod, drying into the warm air.

I thank the doctor. That pathetic bundle of clothes! Away from there, breathing deeply where a fine mist is coming in off the sea.

on a rusty buoy

the fog bell feels

each melancholy wave

 

 

 

The Ruined Church

Archway

 

“…for everything that lives is holy” William Blake

Tenacious flowers of golden weed grow from the cracks. No roof, no door, no pews, no treasure – does it still have a bellyful of love?

entering by the arch

a Cabbage White searches

for what it needs

Ruined church

high above

swifts feast

in endless blue

from an oubliette

in the abandoned ruin

crawls a ladybird

pecking together

a chaffinch couple

graze on the ancient stones

 

The church walls are blocks of yellow rock, still bearing the scrapes of the rough stone-cutting tools used to square them off. There is a bees’ nest in a hole, hectic with hovering traffic.

 

Bee City Airport

helijet entrance arch

in the broken mortar

buzz buzz buzz

the congregation ignore

blackbird’s sermon

 

The blackbird watches me with a bright black pupil rimmed with yellow. The gecko I study is also bright-eyed. A smart beetle, like my neighbour, comes from the car-wash with polished metallic bodywork. From the lean-to outside the church there’s a strangely insistent rhythm.

in the thatch

squeezing notes in unison

a choir of sparrows

in the heat of the sun

a dry font

christens everything

I’m squatting

on the altar

awed by ants

 

I feel as old as the need for rain, here with the ancient urges of birds and bees. I just sit in the ruins, with my evolutionary company.

I am a bee

I am a lizard

I am a people

 

Water

Here is another haibun:

There’s a dead man on the Lifer wing. I left him there with my Lifer friends and came to gaze at the lake. The dripping dip of oars and complaints of a goose reach me across the still water from a mile away.

pale afternoon

a grebe vanishes

into the white mirror

C is a dangerous little career criminal with flat northern vowels. His mother tortured him. But he has just learned politeness and likes it.

S’s mother sold him to her queer doctor for £15. Now he writes his engineering thesis.

K is the prison billiards champion with the silly smile. His mother had a toxic tongue. His brother escaped through suicide and K turned on her.

J’s father forced his pet rabbit down his throat. Now he’s brittle as a corn dolly. Secondary cancers have devoured him.

Who was the monster that was C, spooked on alcohol and speed, on the rampage in 1986 with murder in his heart?

Who was S when he shot the wrong woman?

Who was it who lifted K’s hammer?

Who battered J’s wife?

Inside the precarious Self cobbled together by sadism and abuse, by a frightened child with no strategies, and no help, is there a True Self? And is it calm, and tasteless?

Set that aside. Set all that aside. There is love. Not in what your mum and dad gave you, perhaps, but in politeness, engineering, and billiards; and in the body, which is made of it. J’s body lost its own love, but I love him more freely now he’s dead.

pub lunch –

wiping gravy from my lips

with the wet hanky

Despite the overcast sky there is a mysterious illumination within the scene. Clouds glow, the water gleams. It’s so calm, and tasteless, that I hold my breath like K at a billiards shot.

I daren’t move

or the lake

will wobble

The Higgs Boson

 

“Expanding, contracting, killing, giving life – such is its subtle function.”

[Zen Master Yuanwu, author of The Blue Cliff Record]

At the Large Hadron Collider they accelerate particles round and round a seventeen kilometre tunnel to meet each other coming the other way in a kiss throwing out a starburst of fizzing debris. They want to find out what is hidden inside. There must be something else. They think it will be the Higgs boson. This, dear one, is our Anniversary Metaphor.

The Higgs boson has revealed itself to the Collider’s detectors, but in a teasing flash of thigh.  The Higgs is laughing at them, balanced between Supersymmetry theory and Multiverse theory, where it should not be, where it confirms neither theory, and where it should be unstable. Could the whole subatomic realm collapse?

O the sun burns!

This mountain was syrup

flowing under my feet

Imagined numbers explain the laws of nature to us, but we don’t know if we discovered mathematics or made it up, whether it is out there or in here.

Always roaring

the echo in me

of the wind between the stars

The Higgs refuses to reveal whether the universe was born, or born again and again, or inflated as a bubble in a multiverse of infinite bubbles.

Beginningless kalpas of time perhaps

to the Big Bang

of this ripe nectarine

Gravity is weaker than the delicate tension in finger and thumb pulling skin off a ripe peach. Like Higgs, it is not the power it ought to be, and won’t fit into the theory. Perhaps it is not even a force, just dimples in space. And perhaps the exploding universe is really sitting still. While space inflates. Maths gives us the speed and strength and size, but of what?

Fractals in sand

the ebbing tide

knows how

At the Hadron Collider nature is being mysterious. You have got the best answer.

For the unloved

an immense night sky

creamy with stars

The stars are mother and father to us.

Farmyard flints

through the soles of my shoes

the Milky Way

Outer and inner cannot be distinguished.

 

She licks her kittens

and her fur

as if it were all the same

We may be particles, we may meet, but there’s something else hidden in or around us which may or may not be dark energy or something Higgs-like.

The feeling’s my hand,

your skin, our bothness

and

Hunting Dogs Heard in the Mist

(A new haibun: prose with haiku poems)

 

scraps of someone’s life interview

pass on the breeze

and thistledown too

Emperor Wu asked who he was (“Who the hell do you think you are?” perhaps, after their first unsatisfactory exchange) and Bodhidharma answered, “I don’t know,” which probably did little to improve the atmosphere.

 

footsteps approach –

the sound of bootscraping

a door clicking closed

What he did know, we all know, is that he was one of a few thousand generations of upright-walking beasts that grow, eat, shit, fuck and die.

 

the sheep are in bliss

and high overhead the vast

cool minds of red kite

But beyond that? My personality, for example, is measured medium on an Extroversion/Introversion scale, medium for Conscientiousness, “soft-minded” on the Psychoticism scale and low on the Agreeableness scale (that does not mean that I am disagreeable! No! Just that I’m not foolishly indulgent like most of you). I have some fixed habits and strong opinions, excellent artistic taste, the usual values, and I admit that I’m rather proud of my modest achievements. I have a life narrative from a loveless childhood to love (though my mother would not agree). I want to help my family, and perhaps some other people too. But I’m afraid you can’t actually see any of these things because they are in my imagination, whatever that is, or my mind, whatever that is, and can’t be verified. Bodhidharma is entitled to think that none of these sorts of qualities actually have any substance at all. If he were in a browned off mood, or, let’s say, disengaged, he might go further and assert that the whole personality is a rickety construction of flimflam, fantasy, out of date junk stories about the past and puffed up ego nonsense.

 

woodland full of song

and here’s a fallen nest

with empty shells

 

We are going to do a thought experiment now. Just suppose  – indulge me, please – that you agreed with Bodhidharma-in-a-huff and you decided to pitch the whole of your so-called personality into the bin. Before you turn the page, make two guesses. Ready?
Question One: What would happen to the world? Question Two: Who would you be?

Don’t read on until you have had a go!

 

 

ANSWERS

Question One: The world would be perfect! There, you did not guess that, did you? Any logical process would lead you to think that in order for the world to become perfect all those anxious fools, hamfisted inadequates, strutting bigheads, crackpots with half-baked ideologies and criminals with violent reactions ought to empty their personalities into the bin. But no, oddly enough it is me and you that have to do it.

 

in the arms

of the old silver birch

its fallen neighbour

Question Two: You would be one of a few thousand generations of upright-walking beasts that grow, eat, shit, fuck and die. And build nests. How far does that take us into, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

 

Tomorrow I’ll give you a test on the meaning of the moon. Toodlepip.

 

coming to gaps

between trees

the moon

low in the sky

faint in the haze

a big pink moon

 

 

 

 

Samsara in scabrous drawings: George Grosz’s Ecce Homo

george-grosz-54

The intolerant fanaticism in this face reveals a mind driven by anger and hatred and ignorance. The ‘three fires’ of Buddhist teachings are perfectly illustrated in George Grosz’s faces. Samsara in the Buddha’s teachings is the world of the unenlightened, as perceived by those people unable to escape craving and anger, and unwilling to accept impermanence. The Buddha described, “…beings wandering and running around, enveloped in ignorance and bound down by the fetters of thirst.” George Grosz was not illustrating this proposition consciously, but his eye, soured by his experience of the First World War and the gross inequalities of Weimar Berlin, skewered suffering humanity, struggling with its primitive drives and passions, and lost without any more noble conception. Here they are:

Grosz Beauty, Thee Will I Praise 1919

grosz-081309

These are people with no self-awareness, drowning in the waves of samsara. If ever a painter expressed the debilitating effects of desire it was surely George Grosz. His is a complete dharmic vision of lives lived in a state of haunted ignorance, in a frenzy of craving for what can never satisfy. The woman in a red hat with one rolling eye is the epitome of delusional suffering. She is not going to find her fulfilment like this, craving for what you cannot keep. But all his people are lost, confused; animals driven by crude appetites.

Bigots:

george-grosz-52

 

Murderers:

george-grosz-58

And a power structure of ignorance, brutishness and hypocrisy:

george-grosz-84

It is not clear how Grosz views the victims: the beggar and the man about to be beheaded, but only one character in the whole series of prints appears to have any perception of the ways in which people are tormenting themselves with futile desires and hostile passions, and he is also deeply compromised in his self-awareness:

george-grosz-iv

It is a self-portrait of Grosz, but Grosz was only in his twenties at the time and portrays himself as an older man, and one who seems to know the terrible appeal of consuming sexual passion.

I use the terms samsara and dharmic about this vision, but Grosz would not have had a Buddhist world view.  At the time he would have happily called himself a Dadaist, and, with less confidence, would have acknowledged himself a bit of a Communist. In hindsight, in his autobiography A Small Yes and a Big No, he wrote, “My own hopes were never vested in the masses… What the masses had in plentiful supply was hatred, fear, oppression, deceit, derision, smut and calumny… I had lost all hope in the ‘lower’ classes and, in any case, had never joined in the beatification of the proletariat, not even at times when I pretended to certain political views. The war was a mirror;” [he is writing about the period 1916 to 1922] “it reflected man’s every virtue and every vice, and if you looked closely, like an artist at his drawings, it showed up both with unusual clarity.”

He described the war as “four horrible years” which filled him with “utter disgust.” I think his perception of this manic samsara was not so much politically shaped, and certainly not shaped by Buddhism,  but revealed to his mercilessly accurate artist’s eye in a particularly febrile time and place. First, the artist’s eye: “I began to draw from nature in the Japanese style, that is I made quick little sketches of people walking about, reading newspapers, eating in cafés and anything else that appealed to me.”

Berlin in the aftermath of the war was the place, and he writes about it with loathing: “The times were certainly out of joint. All moral restraints seemed to have melted away. A flood of vice, pornography  and prostitution swept the entire country…  Men in white shirts marched up and down, shouting in unison: ‘Up with Germany! Down with the Jews!’ They were followed by another group, also in disciplined ranks of four, bawling rhythmically in chorus: ‘Heil Moscow! Heil Moscow!’ Afterwards some of them would be left lying around, heads cracked, legs smashed and the odd bullet in the abdomen… The city was dark, cold and full of rumours. The streets were wild ravines haunted by murderers and cocaine peddlers, their emblem a metal bar or a murderous broken-off chair leg.”

His historical perspective is apocalyptic: “As the geo-politicians stepped into the shoes of the humanists, the enlightened age that had begun with the Renaissance ground to a halt, and the age of a blind, ironclad ant, completely indifferent to the fate of individuals, the age of numbers without names and of robots without brains, came into being.”

His artist’s eye, as one can see in his self-portrait, was sharp, ruthless, but deeply implicated  and painfully aware. “I made careful drawings of all these goings on, of all the people inside the restaurant and out, deluding myself that I was not so much a satirist as an objective student of nature. In fact, I was each one of the very characters I drew, the champagne-swilling glutton favoured by fate no less than the poor beggar standing with outstretched hands in the rain. I was split in two, just like society at large.”

I do not claim that Grosz was promoting my Buddhist understanding, but I say that his portrayal of the unsatisfying world people create of their craving/desire, hatred/anger and delusion/confusion, as described by the Buddha, is unsurpassed. He had the eye, educated by disgust at the war, and contempt for the political degeneration of his times, the greedy wealth and horrible poverty, and he had the wonderful skill to set it all down so that we can actually see what is going on in the minds of these suffering characters, imprisoned in the human condition without understanding it. His own collusion makes it all the more poignant. He is not outside sneering, but inside, grinding his teeth.

How modern verse in English was shaped by ancient Chinese Zen

From China comp Gary Snyder again

 

In the first decade of the 20th century, poetry in English sounded like this:

 

Lovely in dye and fan

A-tremble in shimmering grace,

A moth from her winter swoon

Uplifts her face

 

And W.B.Yeats wrote rhythms like this:

 

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die

 

In 1914 and 1915 some strange translations were published. A new note was sounded and a fresh branch of modern poetry was born:

 

The autumn wind blows white clouds

About the sky. Grass turns brown.

Leaves fall. Wild geese fly south.

And:

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead

I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.

You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,

You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.

And we went on living in the village of Chokan:

Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

 

Formally, they are in unrhymed free verse. The language is plain and direct, and the imagery, if it is imagery, is real observation, not constructed metaphor representing something else. First and foremost it is ‘the thing in itself’. A Westerner would write, “My love is like a red, red rose.” An East Asian poet would write about a rose. Perhaps, as the after-taste of the poem, there would be a fragrance of romance, but the poem would be about a rose.

 

The poems were ‘translated’ by an American, the secretary to W.B.Yeats, working in Sussex, using a crib prepared for him by an American art collector who had interviewed Japanese professors about the literal meanings of the characters in classical Chinese poems. Neither the art collector nor the ‘translator’ knew Japanese or Chinese, and neither of them had the original Chinese sounds to work from: they had the Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese words. The ‘translator’ was Ezra Pound, and he had only a hazy idea of how highly rhymed and structured the originals were in Chinese. Nor did he know how to understand the tonal pattern of Chinese verse, a complexity that has no equivalent in our language, though he later studied it and tried to represent it by chanting and singing. So for these translations he simply ditched the rhyme scheme, the Chinese rhythmic structure, the tonal patterning, and any attempt to represent accurately the connotations of the poet’s language, and constructed his own new versions using the story of the poem, and the simple imagery of the poem, as he was able to piece it together from the notes. The effect was very striking. It liberated English verse at a stroke.

 

For all that he did not know much about Chinese language or verse structures, Pound did indeed understand the Sino-Japanese attitude to imagery. He had seized upon it and launched a new literary movement in London in 1913 with a manifesto and an anthology of “Imagisme”. Imagist poets were exhorted to write, “Direct treatment of the “thing”, whether subjective or objective”, to waste no words, eschew adjectives, and to compose in musical phrases. The newly composed Imagist poems baffled people and did not have a great impact, but when Pound published his Chinese ‘translations’ the impact was immediate. The “new, plain-speaking, laconic, image-driven free verse” (Weinberger) which was the origin of modernism in English poetry, had arrived. An emperor’s concubine writes:

 

O fan of white silk,

clear as frost on the grass-blade,

You also are laid aside.

 

One sees the fan, a real fan, ‘the thing in itself’, and only faintly, as an after-taste, the emotion of the abandoned favourite.

 

Ezra Pound was the great impresario of modernist poetry. Pound promoted James Joyce, and inspired the Americans Ernest Hemingway, Robert Frost and William Carlos Williams.

He helped T.S.Eliot with The Waste Land, cutting it to make it more laconic and leave the images to speak for themselves. He encouraged Arthur Waley, a real Chinese scholar, to translate the Chinese classics. Waley’s first book of 170 Chinese poems, published in 1918, was a sensational success. More translators piled in and a wave of books of Eastern verse hit the English-speaking world.

 

The new publications revealed the hinterland of Chinese culture: a reverent attitude to the turning seasons and nature’s ecology; a Chan (Zen) Buddhist sense of simplicity in living, relishing a little hut, a cup of wine, and the full moon at the window; a weary mandarin’s cynicism about political life, the horrors of war, and his choice to retire as a hermit to the country; a love of wilderness and mountains; the ecstasy of the enlightened Chan sage.

 

These themes were particularly attractive to Americans still romantic about the frontiersman spirit, the rejection of the city, a life free from government interference, and the simple delights of the hermit. The themes communicated a heady sense of freedom, reinforced by the translation policy of using plain English free verse for what were originally elaborately wrought and highly structured Chinese poems. The beatniks of the fifties consciously modelled their lives on the Chinese Chan sages of the middle ages, turning their simplicities into a rebellion against the materialism of the modern world. The American poem became as informal and laconic as it was possible to be. And the new wave of translations from Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth, Gary Snyder, and, more recently, David Hinton and Charles Egan, are arguably the greatest of all modern poems in English, – though they are still not much like Chinese classics in form, more Poundian than Poian!

 

What a strange series of accidents, misunderstandings, leaps of the imagination, and inspired improvisations power cross-cultural creative surges! There’s a word for that, and it is ziran in Pinyin. It is the founding principle of ancient Daoist thought: “a constant burgeoning forth that includes everything we think of as past and future… here lies the awesome sense of the sacred in this generative world: for each of the ten thousand things, consciousness among them, seems to be miraculously burgeoning forth from a kind of emptiness at its own heart…” (David Hinton, in his Introduction to Mountain Home, the wilderness poetry of ancient China).

 

 

Political Correctness

 

Political Correctness is not too intimidating in most parts of our country and we have a fairly indulgent attitude towards it. But its purpose is to make you toe the party line, and to frighten you off from thinking or saying anything “incorrect.” It is what the Taliban do. It is what Stalin’s purges and Mao’s purges did. It is a form of terrorism to impose uniformity of thought. It is hostile to the individual, the unorthodox, the eccentric; and it defines any deviation as evil.

Reading The Tragedy of Liberation* recently I was reminded of our British forms of political correctness. In The Tragedy of Liberation Mao’s purges are described in detail. There were four main forms of intimidation:

  • ‘Struggle meetings,’ in which the entire workforce of an institution gathered to see one of its members attacked by a local official for incorrect political attitudes; the crowd was under pressure to join in the attack;
  • ‘Denunciation rallies,’ in which people proved their loyalty and deflected the danger from themselves by denouncing their colleagues or friends or neighbours for incorrect political attitudes;
  • ‘Self-criticism,’ in which loyalists confessed that they had once had other views, or been tempted away from the true path (these self-criticisms were kept on the record and would condemn them some years later);
  • And killing quotas. The usual killing quota for a Maoist campaign was between one point two and two point five persons per thousand of the population. That was the proportion that the leadership estimated would be sufficient to cow and terrify all the people. So, for example, 56,700 people in the province of Henan were killed in the purge of 1950;  45,500 in the province of Hebei;  61,400 in the province of Hunan, and so on. The total for six provinces out of the twenty six, reported to the central administration, was 301,800, so the country-wide total must have been four or five times as many. Unlike Stalin, who disappeared people in the night, without explanation, Mao made his terror explicit and public and forced everybody to watch. In following years there were similar campaigns aimed at ‘Entrepreneurs,’ ‘Capitalist Roaders’ and ‘Foreign Spies.’ When the local administrators had to find these sorts of numbers of ‘foreign spies’ to kill in every province  – in a completely closed country – you can imagine how justice was served.

What I was reminded of was Tony Benn’s de-selection campaign in the Labour Party in the early eighties. He whipped up recruitment of young idealist Red Guards, urging committed left wingers to join local constituency Labour Parties and attack the sitting MPs in meetings modelled on Chinese struggle meetings and denunciation rallies  – for being insufficiently left wing (which meant Bennite – the whole thing was a power grab to control the Labour Party, and ultimately the country).  Ask Frank Field how it felt to be on the receiving end of a campaign of orchestrated vilification.

Far fetched? Bennite bullying did not include the killing quotas, I’ll grant you. Benn signed the book of condolence in the Chinese embassy when the monster Mao died and expressed his admiration for the vicious old brute. He was our Maoist.

The martyrs to Mao are seventy million dead. The number terrorised is an incalculable billion plus. The paranoia in China has not fully abated yet. As for North Koreans, still suffering what Stalin initiated and Mao perfected… may they find their liberation from the liberators soon.

*The Tragedy of Liberation: A History of the Chinese Revolution 1945-57  by Frank Dikȍtter,  published 2013 by Bloomsbury.

 

First Kiss

I experiment with the Japanese literary form the Haibun, a short prose story or reflection studded with haiku poems. Like this:

 

It’s August the seventh 1960 and I’ve just kissed Tessa Carter, while the river mutters in its sleep and two boys strum Rhythm & Blues in the back field. The nose of a coypu slides across the black river dividing the waters.

fourteenth birthday:

I’m the Hoochie Coochie Man

ever’body knowd I yam

It may not be the kiss itself, but in the night air there is a ruthless exuberance. It is not romance, and it does not have much to do with Tessa Carter perhaps. It’s the trillion stars and the sound of water rushing past us like childhood. As it did for a Neolithic boy.

the stars’s energy

whispering

in the reedbeds

I am alive, and I know the music, in an ancient universe that seems to be already in full swing. I have seen stars before, but not noticed they are burning.

I am glad to be rid of childhood. It was beige vanilla daylight. I’ve got a new Rhythm & Blues walk. A Kisser’s Walk. It fits me like woad. I feel the night’s velvet urgency. I want to stay in the night. I don’t want days any more.

All I remember of her:

summer starlight

and the rhythm of the river