The rod of phantom feeling from the interior arch of my foot through the knee, actually passing outside of the leg, yet felt to be part of the leg.
“Rock” of feet against “paper” of ground; scissors of “feet” against “rock” of ground; “paper” of feet upon “paper” of ground. Paper of cement/ scissors of ground. Paper of Grass ,paper of litter , String of string trimmer (weed whacker) on rock of stone, on “stone” of stump. Litter on concrete, bird in grass now in tree above rock;. Foot against curb; flattened can in curbing; matted paper in the street. (Can, paper, street: can beats paper, paper beats street. Somewhere, somewhere. String trimmer sound.)
Sign against house, thirty yards back. Housel old name for Eucharist. Why wasn’t I a poet, said I to my soul. (You haven’t looked at things yet, my soul said happily.) You had to hold the everyday up to the angels, had written William Gass, the finite to the immortal. To the angel: this was a revetment. To the angel: this was a pot hole, this was a tele phone pole / Woodie Guthrie.
Person in the exact same part of his yard I saw him at this time yesterday. A deep blood red or almost scarlet red around his lush green squared box woods, a small yard.
(just keep writing till “writing” somehow accrues. There will be no “Judgment” night. Do the same thing, write the same thing, Day after night, finally you’re too old, weary and deranged to merely out — but you are not yet old deranged wornout enough a beleaguered limestone stump enough yet to escape the monstrous impostures that keep you from. Not old and deranged enough yet to be “pure of heart.”….
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 