The Bird Cry of Myself Delayed

I see a child walking through the neighborhood. Alarms on cars honk off and on through the neighborhood. William Carlos Williams pens a poem in his car then sends the sound of leaves under tires through the neighborhood.  A promise didn’t pick me up. A promise didn’t meet me. A promise didn’t keep them together. This then is a backwash filling him up. This then is ineffectual shifting. This then is something other than the mind. This then is the bird cry of myself delayed. 

There’s the place my father told me about where Bob Hope went to church. There’s the place my father would have gotten on the freeway even though our house was nearby. There’s the place in the neighborhood my father used to live, and a Chinese restaurant he and I ate soup in.  There are 2 dogs who, if my father were in the car, he would have smiled at. There’s the speed my father used to drive. 

I walked to the store. I walked a walk that could benefit from some rails on the sidewalk. I walked as if the grass and the driveways were filled with fire. I walked with no other eye than on walking. I walked as if my mom had coached me not to engage anyone or to answer anyone’s questions and she was waiting for me to return home. I walked as if one of the levels of me was a sandy loam like in the San Andreas Fault all full of a sea like rocking motion.  Alone isn’t a sin. Alone isn’t mentioned in the 10 commandments.  Alone is a web. Alone is a many layered thing. Alone is not a persona but it is. Alone is the way to be, to me. Alone, I lie to myself. I might have fallen off track when I tried to do more than just daydream. I might have fallen off track when I tried to figure out capitalism and Shakespeare. I might have fallen off track when I wandered alone through the streets at night. I might have fallen off track when I saw that my being alive had started a fire. 

We’re the people of the tangle up in space. We’re the people who once grew oranges. We’re the people of the uneasy universe. We’re the people of the menstrual cycle and of the writer’s block.  I am not a businessman. I’m a not going to make it type. I’m a spiritual mystery to myself. I am this analyst’s nightmare. 

I’m talking to you blue sky. I’m talking to you animals running around my house. I am talking to you masses of people. I’m talking to you Sun and Moon and Stars. I am talking to you white noise and you West East North South up-and-down. I’m talking to you Water and Air and Fire and Earth.  Earth I talk to you with my rainbow warm respirations. I talk to you in the engine rooms I talk to you beneath the smoke stacks until my last bone is turned to cinders in the furnaces swept out to sea.

What are you looking for?