justwrite 9 december

no matter the weather the sharks still snap still collapse those jaws into claws into tender unsuspecting skin the sinking we are thinking of may not be recoverable from the countless nuns and the manymany monks swimming in their trunks of memories are shivery in the summer air their clothes worn out of habit in the habit of being in the habit nothing much to grab it from the view nothing much to offer you a different truth just on the inside even when we can’t hide our thirst for juice we imagine the truth is easier to find is a more accessible kind than the rinds of melons I saw in my dream in between waking times the refrigerator opened and with hope full in my mouth I tasted this fruit with my eyes somehow no surprise to find these round green greetings rolling out and toward into the sense of existence we’ve all tried to resist but now awake I mistake the sentiments I meant to send I tried to pretend but in the end the differences were greater there was now and now there’s later but they all taste the same they all call my name in different accents they all pitch strapping tents ready for the wind to sail to catch a flailing flap a trapped pole holding itself to the earth like so many pegs driven into the right holes though the earth’s whole paradigm is a different sort of shift when you lift your foot to look you find square holes round soles and something soft enough to build with here you fill it with sand with gravel you pretend that you travel but instead you pace around you hallow your ground with your own steps and what’s next is the house that you built and we know this nursery rhyme and suddenly you are jack with a few twitches of a pen you might be jumping over a candlestick or grumbling over a serving dish picking out the vegetables and passing on the meat the neat way up the beanstalk is yours too if you talk to the right cow-buyer and I can’t help but admire all these glorious stories that you might end up in sinking or swimming or sticking in your thumb to pull out a plumb but oh what a good one you are sitting there in the corner mourning over your dependence on rhyme although at the same time being pleased to be freed of the disease of enjambment a scandal sent from modern factions still safe from gaining traction in the fairytale world so don’t worry don’t hurry up that hill just fetch that pail of water or whatever else you oughter ‘cause when the tumbling after starts going on then it’s anybody else’s song to sing and I won’t be held accountable