Talking is a function of the mind.

Singing of the soul.

Adjectives are perverse, and make us feel like rotated brains.

Somewhere I recall reading about a man who sang only to himself:

I think I’m talking about The Hill of Dreams, by Machen.

Lucian was the fellow’s name.

I stop sometimes to admire nature and find I cannot.

Ducks are cute, and trees are lovely, but my soul is desecrated.

Why then do I persist?

Here’s a little something:

Around a Park on a Monday

She Moves Me

The pain and the pleasure linked together in a sick dance.

I found myself writhing, striving, for a new chance at life, One that would involve no sacrifice. Just love.

But that concept – love – is rather new. The Greeks said

: agape sou

Who knows? What I do know is that there is a time for hate and a time for when he, submissive, yielded to her :

He yielded to her, and his heart was glad.

~ Homer, The Odyssey bk. 24.

Gladness of heart … Let’s recall what ancient language formulated that phrase … Forget it. In our vernacular, we’ll say that joy has its hands ever at its lips, bidding us adieu. (Keats, “Ode on Melancholy,” loosely quoted) As I sit here, watching a fountain merge with the sky, and children run with “joy” about the wooded lanes of this park, I realize that “there hath past away a glory from the earth” (Wordsworth, “Immortality Ode”)

One of these days I’ll watch for a little while a Lou reed-style satellite.

One of these days I’ll feed geese gain at the park.

One of these days I’ll wake up without the shakes, and eat a sandwich, alone …

Always alone.

I should quote Poe, and I guess I will, but not what you’d expect:

Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his names’s ‘No More.’

` Poe, “Sonnet – Silence”

But I’ll smell the grounds again around the little brook along our street.