#260

Tides of dreadful creation rocked lonely Henry
isolated in the midst of his family
as solitary as his dog.
In another world he’ll have more to say of this,—
concepts came forward & were greeted with a kiss
in the passionate fog.

Lucid his project lay, beyond. Can he?

Loose to the world lay unimaginable Henry,
loose to the world,
taut with his vision as it has to be,
open & closed sings on his mystery
furled & unfurled.

Flags lift, strange chords lift to a climax. Henry

is past. Returning from his travail, he
can’t think of what to say.
The house’s all about him, so is his family.
Tame doors swing upon his mystery
until another day.

About the creative process, inspiration and lack thereof, and isolation in the midst of the love of loved ones. Some days the what to say hides. I’m hollow with this same lack, alone in the midst of plenty, not aware enough of what I have but acutely pained by what I lack and desire. It occurs to me all of a sudden that life and the world and its bureaucracy are unjust. Creativity, for me, even for the alcoholic basket case, springs from the confidence of love. Not the immediate love of a family with your good will their object, but a greater, broader spirit, a giving out to the one and all of creation. If creation can’t or won’t listen, that doesn’t even matter. But when the darker vapors of your nature gas the quickness of your spirit, then you sit dull in shade and look puzzled, forsaken and angry. One of my favorite bands, Over the Rhine, has something to say about this, more creative about blankness than I am in this moment of blankness. This is one damn excellent song.

Some days no one is home. Some days a thug crouches behind the door. Other days, frustration and insecurity suck away your voice’s air. The other kittens are mewing and playing with yarn, but you’re feeling a bit quiet today because you have a botfly larva in your neck.