(Proof of December 15, 1998)
[This is a serialized work using letters from the title, sliding back and forth. E.g. “w Bow” = becomes “Words beside other words”. The entire piece is like that with the exception of one paragraph toward the end, where I break loose a bit. Written in December 1998 when I had just returned to college (you will see an allusion to my chemistry class). Note: contains some sexual language.]
“Yellow Bows, Denim Jacket, Satin Slippers”
Words besides other words, words becoming other words, words bequeathing other words to the world, beginning, obviously, with: you’re essentially lazy, live off welfare, beat off while smoking. Your elegiac lines are lately overwrought, worthless bullshit. Old writers, i.e. you, love lust, old, lonely, lost, obviously without.
Beehives opened on winter streets, water buffalos, wild bulls, offensive water snakes, warbles, bullfinches, ostriches, weasels, young engineers let loose on Watteau’s birthday, old warlocks singing Yiddish elegies, lost love, lost light. Old words, old women with their brooms out, sweeping wet streets. Well, shit. Your early love lost obviously was beautiful, obviously was sad. Your elegy, your essentially encrypted lines limitless lately, obviously. Your early logic leaned on Wittgenstein (Wittgenstein – Boltzmann’s obviously wonderful student). Young Einstein learned light on wooden benches observing winter sunsets. Young Eliot’s early lovely lady obviously went batty opening the wrong suitcase. Yeat’s elegiac lines lasted out wonderful Byzantium (old words seduce). When Shakespeare wrote sonnets you essentially learned language. Old writings become other writer’s Stonehenge, wunderbilder others will stack. Young Emily, lovely, lonely, obsessed with beauty, old words bent with strain, sometimes wonderfully strained. Some logic is painful, painful especially regarding sizing up the self, looking inward. Leave it in.
You’re emotionally lifeless, look old, old worn boots, old worn shoe-strings. Your early life looked open, without bounds. Old writers sometimes become obsessives. Old wizened Berryman obsessed with sex, wicked satyriasis your element. “Look, little one: old wonderful Berryman’s original workbook for the Sonnets.” Your expected lady, Luck, obviously wanting. Obviously obviously went before, or will still.
Quit. Just quit. Obviously won’t. Best open William’s sonnets, you’ll eventually learn. Young Emily likely lost out, wasn’t beautiful, but obviously wasn’t stupid. Your Emily’s lost loves — obviously Wordsworth, Byron, or wonderful Shelly, early Latin lyrics, Ovid. Wild! Bright! Opals! White satin slippers! Wounded syntax, better off with slippers. Wittgenstein became obsessed with simplicity, better off without socks, better off with simplicity.
A lousy lie, that one will become one with someone. Struggle with suitcase. “One wonderful box of wonderful old swill your establishment lacks! A little old, obviously. Wonderful bargain! Suits you economically. Lovely label! Old winery between Oregon and Washington. Obviously a wonderful bargain. Last one!” Weary bartenders observing wretched souls obsessed with smoking, whiskey bottles, the year’s end. Lonely ladies obviously without boyfriends, beautiful once when springtime young. Yellow bows. Denim jackets. Satin slippers.
Wonderful, willowy, witty beauties on water skis, who obviously were screwed yesterday — you’re envious — obsessed with sucking young erect lovers long organs. Lounging openly in wonderful bikinis, open water, sunbathers, waiters…Sternenleer. Your early life left out something. Your endless longings left out something, left out words. One watch broken, one watch still winds. A situation your economic excesses engendered, that your egotism engineered. “Written beautifully. But, obviously, well, wearisome. Beckett, obviously. But senseless sometimes, obsessive (“obviously”). Without structure, obviously. Obviously wouldn’t sell. You evidently like literature. You’ll eventually learn.” Well, shit. You egotistical little editorial lackey. Linger on wonderful old Bach (old Bruch), the organ works — woops — Orgelbuch. Obviously worth studying, for years, except… Long lines of words. Lines and lines of lovely old words, lines of wonderful old books. Obviously wonderful bouquet. Obviously worth studying, one wouldn’t suffice, one book opens one book opens…without summation. Well, someday you’ll end. Latin ‘longa’ observation wonderfully ‘brevis.’ Weltsystemes…
Better off without school, better off without science — if you fail — better off without sumptuous young erotic ladies lingering on the wall. Better off without…you enjoy, perhaps later, perhaps lastly, perhaps… The still point of the turning world, you saw it in the center of the centrifuge. Manganese, spinning, you enjoy. Here is not the digression, but the essence, the still point, the soul, the merry-go-round spins and you are the center, and it all spins around you, like the atom, the valance shells around the proton, stat crux dum volvitur orbis, the still point. It is to be a good person. It is to participate in God’s creation. If you can. If you are able. If you are given the time — God’s great commodity.
Dark England now is my judge and court. Damn near everyone now is my judge and court. After Cromwell, a renaissance. Worlds spinning they enjoyed, when the King came up from his dark place, and was rethroned. The King come back up, dominant, and regal. Better off without socks. But you love socks. You love lovely ladies in socks. So take them off, renounce your nature, give up what has been given to you, what you have been accustomed to, take off your socks. Take them off.
And here, barefoot, I confess. Better off with socks. Better off with shoes. Better off with yourself, whatever self you happen to enjoy.
Looks like old worn briefs, obviously. Well swell. You’re essentially lazy, old lately. Look out the window. Beautiful orange winter sunset! Wonderful Strauss! You embrace the Letzte Lieder, old world beauty. O, Omniscient one. Worldstreams, spinning, you enjoy. The light lingers over western buttes. Better off with loneliness, better off with syntax. Better off with Saturn beating on the window sometimes. Wonderful songs, the Winterreise, Schubert, better off with sadness, better off with solitude. Better off with satin slippers. Better off walking slowly. Beauty opens with slowness. Life opens with silence.