Now I again slow.

But not for long, finding singular words to ignite my ire.  I’m tired of feeling like this today.  I’ve been beat all day by the exhaustion and sniffles and coughing and I’m done, done, so I sing and recite poetry to myself, in prose lines, imagining myself on stage, reading to people–  ‘Allegory erupts, grab me by collar/Allowed to a run, had to be fodder/horns over my car and over the underpass to Berkeley/Up early, into the shop, design a word buffet to fray…’  I’ll pick up this poem later, finish it, read it in 2015.  MORE READINGS!  Huh, more?  How about just one!  Beats READ their work!  Without fear and without delay, no sleeping.  Everything around me, a poem, Jackie’s toy truck, and his blanket (one of them), so much evidence of him here, this is his realm and his empire and I’ll be cited if I arrange or re-arrange something in a way he finds unsettling.  So I leave everything alone and draw from this evidence of my little Beat and feel more alive than I have all day.  And will I go to work tomorrow?  Depends on how I feel.  I plan to, but if I feel ached or slow or even disinterested (for which I have warrant, after my repugnant xmas bonus), I’ll not go.  I’m going into the whole bonus barbarity, as I don’t have the interest anymore, I’ll just hitchhike to the next page, page 3, for me, my poetry and my 100-day journal spree.  Now scientists try to examine some cloth or shroud I think they said.  And the tireless efforts of these men is silencing, deafening, they simply won’t stop.  This tells me, with my rummage for stories, that I will and must take everything apart, for story, for narrative.  Quarrying into Self like these archeologists, hope I find something, something.  Teaching myself, through image; mountains, forests, fields in middle America and snow tops in Alps or even in Central Oregon.  I’m looking and I’m getting tired.  I’ll find in this next year I hope, the synonyms are running out.