Portrait of an Iceberg

I too long to be somewhere else, and someone else. I want to write a diary that will remember me, and that isn't possible. The sea dropped trow, and looked its infant sight away. But that happens often enough, easy enough, simple enough in these parts. I remember when I used to enjoy it - the passionate pleats of nostalgia, and the drippy phrases that curled up to me, imaged in an old album, a clearing of the throat beside the blanched wall.

But that's done, sort of. The moon long gone, ya know, and wouldn't just be like the deepthroated night to sing out of tune, ever so slightly, while I am trying to conduct my empty seminar on the perfect pitch of white and whiteness and white regality. I want to avoid subject matters and style matters: I want to pierce through and just speak in plain song. You know wrestling becomes easier, the more common and rugged the line. Eros for me can be summed up, therefore, rather simply. The necessity of delay, so as to hide the fact one has already been revealed, uncovered, naked on the stark page that is the other person already, read and bored into - like a fissure of false starlight.

Like today, when I ran into you in the coffee shop, and you pretended to be a human test subject for the resiliency of rain, and the barometer of stoicness. The truth is, as I've grown younger all my life, I've realized the true depths of tedium. That means, in my round about manner, that behind every occluded cloud, is another (looser) sail. It can be rent and list - it can move onto the wind and net the bland, gold sprinkled weather. And from there, well, we're off to the races. Tired fences, old charm and bicycles, even rusting flowers. It can follow. It can, it can. In fact, it does. Like an ice floe.