aosid's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - an infinity of lines nip his skin, all perfect and parallel, uncountably one. and his mind, all beehive chaos, all sleeping detritus - he falls to cheap metaphor without shame or effort. to have the mangled rebar cleared, to have the furrows washed into the growing pond over the storm drain, forgotten before dawn--alignment would be the heaven he barely dreams of. but fluorescent waxed-floor figures run both ways: celestial lines end their perfection with gentlest rhythmless patters, enthrall his logicless human creases with more sensations than he has words for (their multitude jeering at the tidy singularity of the impact). the glory of rain is not in a clean field of matched slopes, but in the sweetest whisper of white cacophony. it's in the giving up, the letting in. only it really isn't in any of these tawdry turns - above them, rather. above, beyond, before. rain taught him to speak and to listen and to do nothing but be. 12:47 a.m. - 2011-10-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||