Thursday, December 23, 2010

Song of False Starts

    O Muse, you goddess of good beginnings, you sing and I listen.  Your voice so clear, you know I’m grateful for your talent.  Gifts upon gifts you’ve shone on me, gravel from your golden wheels.  See my agony.  Why must you sing to me in the shower?  My hands wet, my thoughts won’t wait for them to dry.  Paper, which you have obviously rarely touched, holds ink not water.  Should I break my pens and let their ink run out?  It’s where your words go, down the drain.
    Or the train station.  Fine, sing to me on the platform, but why – why! – race away in the bustle of the train’s approach?  I forswear seats, you know that, to stand instead away from that battle and crush for comfort.  At least in rush hour.  But off you rush, as if afraid of crowds, and leave me frustrated.  Immortal one, your status is secure.  What do you care for our jockeying?
    Then, worst of all, you come at bedtime.  Fully undressed, the lights out, suddenly enlightenment dawns on me.  You tempt me to sit naked, scratching out what you say with an addlepated mind, or wait for morning and trust memory to dreams.  Think of this, too often my pens sleepwalk from my night table.
    See what all your sleeping in and late arrivals have left me:

    Two eggs hopped together in a pot, married by physics to jump in unison on a slow boil.  This doesn’t exactly describe how Josip and his neighbour got along but is close considering what happened after breakfast.
    […]
    Saturday Christmas shopping at the mall, time circles the drain.
    […]
    The sniper missed and Napoleon Bonaparte fled into the snow.
    […]
    All the czars of Russia looked out on Earth from the Other Side and asked, is this all we were worth?  Clues for crosswords?
    […]
    Upon hitting the water, Carstiel’s first act was to call his lawyer, who had managed to remain on board the boat.
    […]
    Harold threw his face towards heaven, shot in the head by a mugger.  God, at long last, after a lifetime of prayer, then came to him and demanded, “Is this how you want to go out?  Like a chump?  Get up and walk!”
    […]
    Lonely for the jungle and the noise of their ancestors, the human race invented and refined the police siren.  Wallace, his scalp split open, hoped they were now coming for him and his neighbour, still standing over him with the tree branch.
    […]
    As Gerhard stood under the water, he boggled to think of the cumulative hours – days! – he and other men spend chasing hair off soap in the shower.
    […]
    Scout had a deadline, so what was he doing in the bush?
    […]
    [What was it again, something starting with foundation repair or construction and ending with] and fell out his bathroom window.
    […]
    Though they’d grown up together, and Jacob now his doctor, Jonah realized his brother knew nothing [well, you said “of the harsh business of life” but you don’t really mean that, do you?]
    […]
    [Sometimes you come with a single word, like] super-attenuated [from which I’m meant to glean what?  Some story or another?  One word and I can’t be rid of it!]
    […]
    Thank God!  Granddad was finally dead and his house settled for the last time, [a comma!  What more?]
    […]
    Balfour’s war with the busker continued.
    […]

    Solid starts, worthy of attention, and where do you leave me?  On the precipice.  Give me a push, trip me up, surprise me.  Instead you spin these out, get distracted, and desert me, abandoning your parlance to the typography of translators.  Aloft in your chariot, day and night you take me to your gates.  Thanks for locking me out.
    I’ve brought this before to your attention, and what do you do?  Answer with a question:  Am I going to suddenly stop thinking?  No.  Then what does it matter when you come and how long you stay?  Well, if I have to tell you…
    You count for much, eternal one, save some steady working hours.  So leave counting the minutes to me.  Let’s make the best of our time together.  Small talk is all I ask.  As small as Infinity.
    Make a business of me.  My profit your reward, your profession my success?  Profess, then, profess!  Spiel, brand and sell.  I want your company.  Say, eight hours every day and not eight minutes?  You’ll find I’m at my best most mornings, or after lunch and sometimes during dinner, if I may eat one-handed.  Or in the evening, or overnight, and if you find I’m otherwise engaged, stroke my ear more gently.  Whisper some sweet nothing and lead me on, like the glutton by the nose or lecher by the eye.  Preludes, though, to long discourse.  Not snippets you make me wait the evening for.  I can’t write long pauses.  But true, true; holding your breath does create suspense.  But, hereon, let’s try for better highs.  I sit, you sing and joy returns.
    It comes down to this: “long-lasting” versus “at long last”.  The first is the phrase you want.  Deny the second.  Why come at all if it’s not for long?  Why be long in coming if it’s for small effort?  It’s been this way for years.  Is this our rut?  I know I’m not your only stooge.  Is this how you treat your others?  Truly democratic are you and your sisters.  You bully many into endeavours of hasty scribbling.  Why keep secret what can be shared?  Democracy is Greek for mob rule.
    You talk and talk when I’m not ready.  You speak and pause and leave, feeling bored.  You shrug and I’m meant to be moved.
    But your cruelest show of force?  This, me pleading my case, took days.
    I look to heaven, rolling my eyes.

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