I sit outside
Late
On
the balcony.
(How
I wish I had a fire escape.)
With a cheap cigar and a drink—
A
chill in the air,
And in my body—,
I wait.
I don’t want to sleep.
I
don’t want my bed.
Don’t
want its comfort,
Or
any comfort.
(The
drink, the cigar and the chill of the air
Will
more than do.)
It is an escape.
From:
The
mill of the every day.
(Not
bad, but a grind.)
The
commotion of a loving but busy home.
(Which
loves and fulfills, but distracts.)
But
not from my thoughts.
Thoughts that are torn.
Bewteen:
The
“News of the World”
And
the thoughts of ‘dead white men.’
I sit here in the absurd.
(The
between of the irrational and the rational.)
(To
be here and to report…. It seems to be my vocation.)
Giving way to, or staying,
In the world,
Emphasizes
the irrational—
Which
has become the normal and the habit—
Over
the rational:
The words and books
speak not just to my mind
But
to my heart and soul,
Which
are steeped in the traditions
that gave birth to our present.
Giving way to the books,
It
isolates me… Makes me a non-factor.
Puts
me at odds with everyone
And
everything (every technology).
Alienation,
uselessness and then angst.
This chilly, empty and quiet desert
Where
alone is good
Allows me to think,
And
think that thinking can be done
And
(in some way) do good.
It allows me to think,
At
least for now.
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