Phlegmatic

Armed with a mug of hot, eddying miso soup

(the wallowing of heat around the swelling,

persistent glands is warmth/music to my inner ears)

Listening to the words of a song,

An anthem of giving

A song that stirs the soul into action:

I reflect on the many devoid (of writing) days past

And,

The day.

I have a disclaimer:

In my need to perfect.

To reconcile myself  with my ever (un) controlled hand

I fall into a helpless, un-avoidable state of abandonment

Where every juncture of the day

Is a piece of writing in the making

If only I could then pull out my quill

And paper

I may have finished my novel by now.

But no.

It is no to be.

Yet.

Disclaimer duly noted to self.

A wedge of light, solid and raising

Penetrated my cave of solid dark

Sticky tiredness:

Consciousness afloat in denying the light

So aware of its overriding power in my wake.

I am stilled by the dust stranded in the rays

Like all those who are caged by hierarchy, servitude

And their dignity, a long fragmented shadow disenthralled

Into the last breath of hope which is the mere thread

That keeps them alive.

Their lifeline.

What am I doing pitying my disease

And revelling in the life I live

When it poses no challenge to the mind?

To the physical body?

To the soul?

I was stirred

By the negative spaces contrasted by sunlight

And vowed that on my rise from disease

I will condemn my comfort.

I will start with the ego

That is addicted to the red number in my periphery

That assuages any loss or rejection.

I will live by what I say:

Be a soldier of conviction

Upstanding in the face of condemnation.

In the face of such a soul stirring morning

How can I not be humiliated by the

Composure, quiet intelligence and abundant talent

Of a writer that ripples the clouds above Brooklyn hill?

It is the silence that intrigues.

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