Friday, September 29, 2017

CRISS CROSS APPLE SAUCE

Rhythm is
the gist of it—I'm growing

up, and growing old, and
dying every minute.

In my pursuit
of freedom,

I am like an autumn apple falling—

to lush grass
in the cool evening:

with a blush, I will
ripen to my own destruction—

toward a gravitational certainty
which takes root and blossoms

into repetition,
reinforcement, and insulation—finally

toward abstraction. Until
I am no longer

like an autumn
apple falling;

now I am more like
the pattern

of an autumn apple falling—

repetition after repetition
leaving me soft and mealy,

leading, inevitably,
to falling

again in silly,
desperate love with

the routine—

by which
my point of view gets (hopefully)

smeared-out all over the
place—without me.

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