Morton’s Fork
This is the way in which I proceed.
This much madness is too much madness, I think.
Thinking this, I am here about the revolution.
Because I am here about the revolution,
and building a small cabin
I have found a reason to write a comprehensive almanac.
When I am not here about the revolution,
and I am not building a small cabin,
I am writing a comprehensive almanac.
The almanac includes or doesn’t include a section on each subject.
When I write my comprehensive almanac,
either thinking or not thinking about madness
and the amounts of madness there are and aren’t,
but not building a small cabin,
though perhaps thinking or not thinking
about building a small cabin,
I write a section in the almanac on each subject.
In or not in each section I include or don’t include
a section that is either about or not about each subject.
When I am or am not writing or not writing a section about each subject
or not about each thing I am building or not building a small cabin.
When I am building or not building a small cabin,
while I am thinking or not thinking about whether this much madness
is or isn’t too much madness,
and I am writing or not writing a comprehensive almanac,
I am always or not always thinking about the revolution,
or not the revolution.
In this way I proceed.
25 April, 2008
Saw my first concert there.
Jones Beach State Park
The grey wooden walkway floats damply over the grasping fingers of salt water:
Its pilings silent, clogged with must and clamped heavily with marine life.
The music is questionable: the question is immaterial
Over the roar of the sea: there is only the occasional gull.
What aren’t they thinking, sitting alone or in twos and threes?
Each one contains one bird-brain, and two hollow-boned wings.
Without any guidepost I would pace down the pier
Dividing up all the debris: some flotsam and some jetsam.
This uneasy and tired night, settled firmly over the sea-side landscape
A space reaching to be filled, like interlocking parts of a whole portrait.
Some darkness is like a winter, thin and full of wires
And the lights reflect on the surfaces of the water, moving back and forth.
Three flags wildly flapping and clapping loudly in the midnight breeze:
I am casually rolling home wearing a garland of garbage and leaves
The pavement along side the pier, cracked and holding back
The earth’s final cataclysmic stretch outwards towards the stars.
The grey wooden walkway floats damply over the grasping fingers of salt water:
Its pilings silent, clogged with must and clamped heavily with marine life.
The music is questionable: the question is immaterial
Over the roar of the sea: there is only the occasional gull.
What aren’t they thinking, sitting alone or in twos and threes?
Each one contains one bird-brain, and two hollow-boned wings.
Without any guidepost I would pace down the pier
Dividing up all the debris: some flotsam and some jetsam.
This uneasy and tired night, settled firmly over the sea-side landscape
A space reaching to be filled, like interlocking parts of a whole portrait.
Some darkness is like a winter, thin and full of wires
And the lights reflect on the surfaces of the water, moving back and forth.
Three flags wildly flapping and clapping loudly in the midnight breeze:
I am casually rolling home wearing a garland of garbage and leaves
The pavement along side the pier, cracked and holding back
The earth’s final cataclysmic stretch outwards towards the stars.
A list
A List of Things That Cannot Be Described in Words
1. The taste of peanut butter.
2. The feeling of laying awake in bed on a weekday morning.
3. The sound of the D string on an acoustic guitar.
4. Wind that blows the front of your flannel shirt open and cools your hair.
5. The interior of pancakes.
6. The first instant of sexual intercourse.
7. Snow on the soles of bare feet.
8. Pine resin between your thumb and index finger.
9. The smell of bacon in a hallway.
10. The smell of old paperback books.
11. Soup in the moustache.
12. Headache.
13. The cold side of the pillow
14. The moment of inevitability between the trip and the fall.
15. Vomiting.
16. Just the lips (and the tip of the nose) in an icy creek.
17. Owing money all around.
18. The smell of grass.
19. Rock and Roll.
20. A pink sunset through grey windows on a yellow day.
1. The taste of peanut butter.
2. The feeling of laying awake in bed on a weekday morning.
3. The sound of the D string on an acoustic guitar.
4. Wind that blows the front of your flannel shirt open and cools your hair.
5. The interior of pancakes.
6. The first instant of sexual intercourse.
7. Snow on the soles of bare feet.
8. Pine resin between your thumb and index finger.
9. The smell of bacon in a hallway.
10. The smell of old paperback books.
11. Soup in the moustache.
12. Headache.
13. The cold side of the pillow
14. The moment of inevitability between the trip and the fall.
15. Vomiting.
16. Just the lips (and the tip of the nose) in an icy creek.
17. Owing money all around.
18. The smell of grass.
19. Rock and Roll.
20. A pink sunset through grey windows on a yellow day.
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