On Swimming In the Stream-of-Consciousness, and Other Favorite Pastimes
July 24, 2014
The water is too cold, but I know its caress;
Its bed, whereupon you beside me lie
sometimes Kept warm by gentle spirit open spirit
Spirit-which-harbors-fire (roaring, whimsical?)
Thermodynamics, please don’t let me down!
The water is great; the flow torrential.
Your flame is greater, and anyway it warms the stream-bed
(Is kept dry under the stream-bed?)
Keep me warm, I’ll keep you dry.
Now the water is warmed
I hope you’ll swim with me
(Don’t get me wrong- you look beautiful already, sitting on that bluffed ledge with nothing but your Golden toes tickling the water or being tickled. The color of the Earth matches your eyes, the grass, fresh and wild, matches your soul.)
I hope you’ll swim with me,
Easier it must be to count the water molecules
But to observe and understand, while I surge past?
Please no! Swim with me so that those molecules might be yours!
That they might perfume your skin with love
And words and songs.
Later, when you are alone, scrape off the songs and words and love
The deadly shear against your skin now gentle and delicate
Your movements, a perfect rehearsal for a perfect ballet.
Save those molecules and put them in glasses,
And play your song for me.
Between the swim and the ballet
I may understand Prufrock’s indecisiveness;
Where I spent a metaphor, perhaps you merely spent a day in the sun, a bath in a river.
Would that be wrong? No, it would be just as beautiful,
But tears would dance late on my pillow.
So should I do anything? Or let the wheel of Chaos grind onwards…
The tears stain the pillow, and still your cheek will be perfumed
Your eyes will lock with mine, and I wonder if you ever see
The confusion trapped therein, and then you’ll smile.
I’ll love that
And the wheel just keeps rolling.
The stream just keeps on flowing.
We’re late for the ballet; tardiness is a symptom of full days
Spent in company which cares not for clocks or the great machinery within
‘Society’ (Not even a shrug? Well, I like the way your shoulders move.)
The dancers are exquisite, the bodies are ethereal
All Golden curves and lines and intersections
Arcing through the air
Trailing perfect ink on off-white parchment
The ink sails off the page, shrouds the dancers, brings them close.
How is it that bodies are all the same, but they fit like puzzle pieces?
Then our eyes are open, we are the dancers;
We wrote the story together, but I don’t know how it ends.
(I don’t think you do either but you might)
That’s okay, maybe it should never end.
Can we dance forever?
Is my mind diseased or beautiful,
When I see what either is or is not real?
I like the way our bodies rhyme, just the way our words do not.
I love the way our words rhyme, just the way all bodies do not.
They say devils can only travel along a single line,
And so intersections are precarious, for the dead.
Well, we are not dead, and I think the most interesting point is when they rotate.
Ha! How I yearn to die by funeral pyre.
How I yearn to be the object of your yearning.
Let our songs ring out! Different, but only by a matter of simple cents.
Let us synchronize our songs, converging as one instrument
The essence of each tone become complete.
By Taylor Brake