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(for Sune Karlsson)


An Indefinite Place In The Room


In the depths of days
I am my own floating vessel

Thoughts are sudden downpours
of uncomfortable certainties;
for the head what worms are to the stomach

The daily de facto defecation
builds trust for the day

I have toothpicks of birch wood
in a small plastic guksi
in the bedside table drawer,
within convenient reach
after the daily cereal breakfast in bed,
before each morning's meticulous review
of gaps

The two December ravens move
in horizon-wide circles
around the farm,
in noisy clacks and erratic flutters
along the main tracks of the sweep

Marcel Proust lies on a six-part lure,
Part One loosened from the bookshelf gloom,
up under my throat,
while I remember the heavy two-volume version
we received as a wedding gift
from Judy Sands & John Mason
in 1978 in Dallas,
which we later gave away,
along with a sewing machine,
to a couple of Indian women
at a laundromat in Phoenix in 1980

Somewhere these two bound volumes stand,
with dedication,
in someone's reality

Feeding the horses at ten
marks the boundary of the real day

If there's mucking out to be done
and wheelbarrows to be pushed,
I am the spokesman of the past
in outbursting consequences;
the striking talisman in the treasury of thoughts

The horses' grinding jaws hypnotizes away,
fateful in the barely perceived precision of gusts;
an icy cool sliding up the alleyway

The day holds me back from 09:49 to 13:03

My friends are long-distance trust uncertainties
in vulnerabilities beyond reach;
figments of imagination
in thoughts & old photographs

Emails shine like silver plates
in the artist's black

Sudden insights
about evolutionary pain thresholds:
Silk sensations & earth colors

Memories of Camilla Gripe;
valuable thoughts in small glass bottles;
a stove and Firework music

Sune entirely dressed in white,
his jet-black fringe to the side,
love finally allowed;
broken out, unaltered;
his thunderstorm voice
of specially hardened metal
resonating through his whole body,
years curled up in cut corners;
the Immediate, in 1971, on its back
on the rag rug;
a young Eternity dressed in old worlds;
the present a retrospective
of what's happening now;
a memory created in the present,
falling inward, howling outward,
refilled with circumventions & circumlocutions,
cracked in currents of falcon-swift shadows,
hovering considerations;
the solidity's grainy transition
in the sharp grain snow in head-wind faces
over the black-ice lake

The analogies lie ready
like Finnish winter warriors
in the forest edges

I oversee this body
like the farmer his furrows

I lay it fallow;
let empty thoughts rise uninhabited;
let the body rest
like a rotting tree trunk deep in the forest

It's winter;
I pull the blanket of snow over all intentions;
let odd be even,
let the weapons rest, time pass,
just before sorting;
a forgetfulness beyond transience;
an openness greater than the mightiest breath;
wider than the wildest recklessness

Yes, these days that never reach the summit
retreat when night floods in
from all directions with its lanterns,
when the horses stand farthest away
in the pine grove, listening;
the houses dazzling will-o'-wisps
up on rural hilltops

The forest machines
are grotesque glowworms
deep inside the coniferous darkness

I hear the splashing of oceans in my body:
the wreckage rocking
in the Ithacan swell of the cardiovascular system;
the stars casting out in wide galaxy veils

Reality is on its way somewhere

What you think is a visit
from candle-headed Lucia with her entourage
are the brittle bells of tinnitus
embedded in a gentle hum

Slowly time withdraws its hands from you;
the years vanishing with tired steps
in all directions

What was recedes
with an accelerating Universe

The words lack letters;
become bleeding phonemes,
and finally a tone that slowly sinks
into a sensation that is Sea & Night
and an indefinite place in the room





Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 22 gånger
Publicerad 2024-02-16 12:13



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