Friday, August 7, 2015

Journal 82 - Dylan Understood Revolutions Per Minute

The cold rain slipped in like a thief in the night to save
us from the perdition of summer. It is cold and wet and
the leaves glisten in the fallen moonlight and Ik now no
deeper thought. My eyes are bothered by this slippery beauty,
burning in the windy night, crying reluctant tears at all those
who have fallen in this beautiful wet world, like boxers struggling
in the last round of their last fight; like matriarchs who lie
to dance and shuffle their feet with a wonderfully wrinkled
smile and fought for twinkle in her wizened eyes, who passes through
this wet world with hymns and hugs and prayers and squeezing
hands. A hand squeezed can make the venom in a grin grown
sweet like a six year old at her birthday party when that one
certain person arrives ful of warmth and smiling laughter
conquers all anxiety. Red wine is so good outside at night in
the cold. Cold is a state of being and my being tells me I'm
cold. I see the lights strung around the small white fence
around my deck reflected in a semi-circle in my wine glass
like the lights on a runway (were they in a semi-circle) or the
pegs of guitar strings on a giant 27-string guitar; or the
illuminated connectors of a memory board stick, maybe
SODIMM;- and it is good. It is good to see no matter how
or what the method or what the content, no matter the
comparison - it is good to be aware. It is easy to judge and to
correct but to understand is a gift of God. To drink is not
to understand. But still Dylan understood. Life is a record player
and most of us are on the wrong speed, the wrong revolutions
per minutes - we are too fast. Thirty-three is good. Life is a
slow revolution of punctuated equilibrium that settles at the
bottom of someone's dirty ocean. Life is cycled seasons of laughter.
Life is learning ephemeral contemporary thoughts of you and me
and technology too, knowing too late these thoughts are
dark like a whore who has a trust fund in 3 banks. Life is
a song full of warmth and heartache on a record with a
scratch that keeps repeating itself over and over, always finding
a new audience with the birth of another credulous generation
who finds itself enlightened with the spirit of man. A child's
laugh is caulk for the scratches and cracks in this broken
world. The world may be a teetering pivot in a silent cold
vacuum but I hear the music in the dark spheres and i
feel the heat in the distant emptiness of our blank verse.


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