After I got home from Isabel’s street dance lesson, weary from shlepping all over town after a hard couple of lessons with a bunch of kids I’ll swear are all living in their own universe (but come down to it, aren’t we all, really?), I went out to the balcony to smoke a joint, as I do, and I wrote this little poem:
The leaves that fly across the lawn
go wherever Summer’s gone
another season’s bit the dust
but Spring will come
in this we trust
but that’s not the whole poem, or maybe, rather, not the only poem, the stream of thought began with a stream, and this line, or some variation of it:
a single rock will redirect the flow
of an ever changing mountain stream
it isn’t so much what you know
as what you dare to dream
but, while we’re on the stream metaphor, I don’t know what my thought was before that moment, we can only explore so far upstream before you run into tangled brush and you almost never find the source, and I must say, it seemed to have a more powerful flow when it first came to me, and then came this:
Aphorisms make you seem profound
it isn’t what you say, but how it sounds
and there was more, much more, (one about trains and the doppler effect, for instance) but then Helena got home and we went out for Chinese, and then I fell asleep after we got back and just woke up to write this, and it’s the first any of those short shorts got written down so a couple of lines got lost, a bit of my Kublai Khan in praise of superficiality,but it’s not a tragedy.
If they were any good, they will come back.