The Yellow in My Beak is Weak

P,

My nature is to strain at what has been lost, though I do not wear the face of one who is known to have lost much. The question—is this loss a thing I have made, & not a thing which has been handed to me—was answered long ago by many others in my stead. It is a sick substitution for all the illness of the world, over which I would nightly weep, were it not for a murmuring of nothings into the air around my ears, which calms my body & subsumes my thinking & dries out all my thoughts of weeping more.

When I was young, about ten or eleven, I had been walking across the recess yard at school & I can’t quite remember where I was headed nor where I was heading from, but it reminded me of a dream I had been having for a few nights, wherein there were crows nesting in the attic of my home. This is not my home, I would think to myself from within the dream, I have no home & all the colors are wrong & faded & the birds far too jovial & drunk & the yellow in my beak is weak & I don’t remember walking here & I don’t know how to leave. Invariably I would arrive at the realization I were dreaming, & invariably at that point I would wake. Now then, at the school, it was something in the colors of the pavement at my feet was just the sort of yellow in my dreaming or else I had forgotten where to go or where I’d been or how I’d come here or had misplaced how to leave, & was struck by just that feeling of the dream, but could not wake from my waking–though all the world was wrong, it seemed, & I did not have a home. I fell to giant sobs in my inward cavities, stopped where I stood & looked around at the other children to see if any had noticed I had been dismantled from the gut out & if they had they seemed not to mind. I wanted to run up to some one of them & clutch them at their feeling places: make them see what was. That I was. & “that I was” seemed such a dreadful thing. But I had seen already what cruelty was shown to those who acted out of turn. Glad to have got through this horror unnoticed, I carried on & never mentioned it to anyone.

,
P

I might have missed the steady implication of the waves

P,

Having come first to the fugue from a psychically dissociative fog of identity, I might have missed the steady implication of the waves upon the mind of winter. However, while sat in Russian symphony just last week – the concerto’s fugue ensuing like so or such or so – I, having thought the fog a formless space, a space less motion, merely adrift, was made informed by my uncle: were a fugue but a subtle and receding repetition – steady grounded ground if groundless over ground, which many other themes will pass & find themselves exposed.

The forever emptiness of ocean, somewhere therein, seems to lie a woven thisness, out of nothings, sure, but all in all. Depths seem made of layer on layer of empty surface & when snow licks near a sea, crashing is certainly the custom behind the dream of eardrum.

Fall, float, swell, churn, pummel, flow, fill, sulk, boil, wash, spill, eddy, rush, recede.

 There is nothing water will not do to quiet the eye of the I.
(There is nothing water will not do to quiet the I of the eye).

,

P