There’s no simile, but a slurred word. No metaphor that doesn’t outsmart itself. Let’s get down to the bone of the matter, the bread and butter of plainspoken fact. Let me tell you of the one I love or our delight in nature or the kindest cut. Children gambol, and there’s joy in that, in spite of wordy prettification. So let’s return to the source of the river, every poem a meat and potatoes poem, every story nuts and bolts, lean and mean. Let’s get down in the mud and wallow.
A portrait of creation’s spark, opus and epic of the right hand, whirlwind invention beginning here, the mind’s glistening corpus rifling a subconscious index, a bit of neuronal foreplay, the manufacture that makes a mind, our clever monkey antics giving us the handgun and lightbulb, telescopes and buzzbombs and soda pop, wristwatches, nerve gas, opium… The mind that gives the gift of spirituality and conscience. Small wonder we need to rest come night. When we dream through frenetic slumber. Godlike and feral.