Saturday, January 12, 2008

On Moving South

Be flexible! cries the pragmatist within me - why can't you write your diary on this steno notebook passed through an iron grill of a half-closed drugstore on Christmas night, a Saturday, this fuckless bicentennial year.

Be poetic! cries my muse, wondering at the instant add water and stir summer into which I have suddenly been propelled, writing weak poetry or is it strong prose propped up against a garbage bin under the shade of a street lamp flooded palm tree.

Be with me! cries my disease, but she whom it addresses cannot hear.

Be still! cries the December summer wind.

- mt, Christmas 1976, Gainesville FL


Dan'l said...

you are counted among the best minds of my generation, you angel headed hipster you.

Michael Tobis said...

Aw shecks.

You can't imagine how much unblievably embarassing, frankly certifiable raving I have to plough through to find these gems, though...

Anonymous said...

It’s always possible that on 12.25.76, she scribbled something like this on a random slip of paper:
“yes, yes, i can hear you. i do hear you. can you hear that i am hearing you?
"You are my disease, no my cure, no my disease, no my cure….”
And it’s a round…maybe a few people singing the same parts, just a couple beats out of synch… melodies that weave over and under around and through each others’ hearts.
Only some cosmic jamoke in the far back seat of the theatre hears all of them singing at once and understands that it's a round.