Henry Miller on t.v. right now, middle of the night, old and white
with his memories (his mother hated him for not becoming a tailor).
Some fear has me in its wind. Tonight the first time out of the house in four days.
Cars like menacing drones with their unpredictable minds, people leering,
wearing their habits (death like a brother flows through Miller through Assisi)
with what grace they can muster, or, lacking this, press their faces on the windows
of the moment. Food, like lumps of the earth, bringing the presence of animals
into the caves of the body, flows outside. I am dealing with things as intrusions,
everything but words, reading furiously and hearing everything.
Last time out went slamming from a barroom for this very reason.
Tonight the place has no effect, just a feeling of weight that borders sadness.
Now I must have the radio on (you see). The writer with his cane has gone off,
nothing but exploding autos on the dial. My eyes are attracted to the flames.
For nights the coincidental shadows on this couch have been playing over this body.
Still it knows nothing, yet feels, perhaps, that it does. Sinewed darkness moves time
somehow faster, making it more valuable. The days I have been throwing over,
as if with a fork, while each night, collected and compressed like a diamond,
stands shining behind the eyes. My plan is to sleep through Charlie Chan
and see what happens then. I am very worried about changes in the world,
mine as well as everyone else’s. My preoccupation with life is visibly diminished.
The first show has come and gone, the second on its way. So what?
How many times do we have to say that? Are we so civilized the snow must mean
more than itself? Pop goes the weasel. I dig myself under cover.