Sunday, July 13, 2008

Storm Stalking

Bertha teases Bermuda

A new storm forms mid-Atlantic.

I am a storm stalker... I cannot help myself

I want to figure out how to write poetry without words. Without language.

Carved in silence.

But visible. Audible.
I want to figure out how to write poetry....

without words.

without language.

People passing on the street before my door will have to stop... look up at the sky ... or down at their feet... where did that come from? they will say to themselves.

And I will sit here, shirt off in the heat, rocking back in my chair. I might even manage a smile (as long as they aren't looking my way).

They'll think it's the helicopter passing far to the west. Or the firecrackers a few blocks away... weeks after the 4th... think no more of it and go on with whatever they were doing and never once in their lives remember this moment--which might have been the most important moment in their lives... and mine.

But I'll remember. I will remember. Each and every one of them--their passing, their passing me by... the way I remember, even when sometimes I forget their names, the women I've entered and left... drawing out of them what I am, what I have become, what I will leave behind when I am no more.

Like the names of the storms... the one's that did not merit immortality, but are named again and again and again... returning until they have learned to do the one thing that will earn them their place in history

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