Notes From A Burning House

Today I walk mincingly because I am wrapped up tight in a blanket of noise and so I traipse daintily as if I carried an egg between my knees and where the light falls it grazes the wall and leaves the softest brushmarks.  The floorboards were organ pipes and the lid on the sky rattled when Gloria exploded into sound and the house flew in every direction in a million pieces of mirror that caught the moonlight and bathed your first kiss in twinkling bluish peekaboo light. 

The shadow of the jay skips from battleship to marigold. 

I fled from the isle of wights in horror of their ways, their scheming and conniving ways, their scheeving and combating ways, their lying and wightwashing ways.  Still I make use of their talents, their wicht-craft if you will (and you did, so I have).  You will not see me if I will not be seen when I don my good vetter vest, and for this you call me "recluse" at your pleasure although my friends can see me, as do children.

And, of course, the owl gazes where it pleases.

That night of your first kiss and the magical twinkling light that accompanied it in moonlight song, a beautiful song was sung by a group called The Underyards whom I may never hear again.  George played sitar (he’s gone now) and Pynchon played his post horn.  Salinger hit a drum. (And by the way, the latter two don’t even look alike.)  It was a grand time among friends and that is often how it really is with so-called recluses. 

The house is gone and I hold the blanket tighter.  The egg has just dropped and the broken shell revealed the little thing he gave you that night he kissed you.

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