Kingdom of the Instant

Keeping Time To be in there with it, tock to its tick,mud to its chink, oh, but running, unthinking, alive, lurid, unprepossessing, liquid, mercurial, lucky scalpel, leap, love cry,music sticking from the violin. I said it, oh, and then it said to me: no more leaden introspection, have foot and no boundary, no second choosing, but this thought here going, too late- tailwater of its pure, untrammeled flowing. Downtime looms in the mouths of statues. Slow time looks back. Change screams, The docks are all empty, the ships gone away. In the sea there, bobbing and being immersed. Why loiter over the petri dish"s bloom? Why linger? Why why when when wicks the flesh right off the bone: what curl and sheen of unbridled delirium takes? How imagine otherwise lifted and set down, the solid crock and rabble of other years? This one here, now, well put: where did I forget? Where trial gulped its long meal by drummed and finger-fiddled desks. Why excavate recite and not compose, the static fact and not the moving spring? When did kiss go? When flower power? Why when when where shows mold-wallows of hard and tender raptures, gene pools place held: cinder stones beside a track. Pick one up and throw it at the train. The quick and slow go side by side. What will get the girl to the dance? Bluster or trudge? And what do you do with your hands while making love? The elephant circle? The tour de corps? The luminous moment continues to grow freshets of everlastingness, the flow here unarchived in the only place life possibles out of unlikelihood, shrinks from being, leaves only thought. Snakeskin on the doorsill, reliquary in which all forms of nudity contrive when the thing has wriggled on, grown gigantic beyond losses and gains: 1967 and 1981. Reckon, bog down in corrections, or reanimate, this time with a tad more spice in the curry, a seven instead of a five. Drumroll this desk: letters, a map of the hot fishing spots in the lake where Richard Nitz, gay-basher, threw Michael Miley"s axed-off head; empty cigarette packs; Praise God I"m Satisfied by Blind Willie Johnson; and a telephone on top of it all. But event resists the word. It happened earlier, a shining thing among reschedulings and cancellations, late March, sunlight on daffodils, the stab wound of "Auld Lang Syne." Tongue knowledge needs grunt and sigh. Who need remark much on why the mating cardinal"s oh mama brings a snatch of the hesitation blues? To see two things at once is one thing. Not genius, work. The night is coming, sweet hour of prayer. Shall we bring in the sheaves, gather at the river? Clone a better sheep? Here now, need you know the very bird? Who justifies Little Richard to Beethoven? The critique of creation is a shriek. Slow was my downfall, but love raised me like a lily from the ground. Long ago, she brought me into round. A Whisper Fight at the Peck Funeral Home 1 No balm in heaven. Bone light. Things tick as they desiccate. Immaterial who we were. Time narrows the hide to a strap- Everything bound leaps once, and is free forever- decay our fertilizer, dissolution our daily bread. Questions. Questions. Rain out there, between here and the mountain. Mist for the blind interpreter, not here yet, maybe never. But the body gets laid out by noon. People like to have what is missing before them. With ashes, you always worry,Are those the right ashes? Corpse, I want to ask, silent mime, are you packed? The Ladies" Junior Auxiliary mans the train station. What secret did you live out of like a suitcase? 2 Aunt Brenda took the spectJones, Rodney is the author of 'Kingdom of the Instant' with ISBN 9780618224173 and ISBN 0618224173.