Friday, June 20, 2008

Perched on the Third Dot of the Ellipsis

A day called Friday, January 11, 2008, for no reason that I can ascertain...

An overcast & rainy mid-morning in the unforgiving city whose name can change
without warning.
Raindrops hang suspended in a vaporous light.
The days stretch across another meaningless page of the Journal named Thirty-Four
in a day-dream of Old Ditmas Park.
Spheres of Vast Discontent and watery disillusion cast their orbital shadows across a rancorous & repentant Calendar
The day slowly retreats across the page and it’s psychic imprint is pressed neatly between pale and parallel blue lines.

Now the rains come in earnest...

And I know that it must also be raining on the Fulton rooftop—up there where I gazed out at impossibly retreating afternoons in a lost daydream, retrievable now only through obscure incantations and watery prayer.
An obscure gloom & loneliness troubles me on the second floor overlooking Dorchester Road as the cars and trucks and buses push through the rain and on into oblivion...

Perched on the Third Dot of the Ellipsis:

The Great Cenotaph of Fulton Street, washed by the downpour, sighing & moaning softly in the dirge of the storm.
Raindrops hit pools of water as blurred reflections dance to the water-born rythms.

Ghostly Latitudes and Spidery Longitudes...

As a few pale lights are visible in the muted houses across the street.
And the waters must also run down the hill of Fulton Street as I record their progress from afar—in exile in a suburb of re-routed and strangely echoing thoughts and ruminations on memory.

The rains have bent my mind out of shape, or possibly into shape—who knows which?

And thusly in despair & desperation would I coax Neptune down out of it’s mighty orbit and onto the more easily-managed confines of my kitchen table and perform a decoction of that vast & terrifying planet, boiling it down for days on end and then siphoning-off it’s essence into a thimble-full of the rarest poison ever known to man and then hold the unspeakable liquid up to the light and swallow it with a hearty toast, and then dream like no man has ever dreamed before!

Unknown cities revolve around me in a vortex of fear & horror.

I throw back the shot into my gullet and toast the Heavens as it burns through my entrails:
The winds pick up immediately as the tree across the road bends almost to the ground as it is lashed by unimaginably ferocious gales! The windows give way and are sucked out into the maelstrom, then the walls are torn away and I am bourn into the Ammoniacal Skies! My first breath fills my lungs with the absurdly toxic atmosphere and my flesh dissolves and is torn to pieces by winds that no man will ever feel! My spirit is blown along into the vortex of Neptune’s storms, aloft on blue vapor, crackling with immense electrical currents and an as-yet-unidentified chromophore which gives the clouds their rich blue tint. Hydrogen and Helium are my companions in this mad ride around the vast planet:

Fire of Suns and Spray of Comets!
And Baleful Light from a Sickly Moon!
From Neptune’s great Cyclonic Storms
And Ammoniacal Oceans:
Dreams too Foul & Frightening to Recall!
Are Bourne on an Orpimental Hue:
Sinopia & Saturnine Red
and now Egyptian Blue...

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