Red Blaze Is Still The Morning

In my little hut of tomorrow there is a little earth there. My meaning and my message, spent. The scratches of my boot heels in the floor are nearly constant. I am restless and uneasy. Songs no longer come easily to me. The thrush’s voice, once heard, a woodland memory. Other things, I remember entirely. So, I make nothing at all at my table today. Shut within, shut inside, I know the wind is blowing, and the light grows more at my single glass window. Outside the abounding world must prevail. And this here had once impelled me. Feeding the fire of my stove, warming my hands, touching my cheeks with their palms, I felt human enough.

Time ago it was, and it also was not, that my days of solitude, like mourning, were sufficient. They had fed me alone like zsir spread on toast. In fact, I needed these to hear the trumpets red cry blaring. From these, two years were spent like the snap of my finger and thumb. And I had felt the angels of history. They were nearly the perfect company, and, besides my wife, I scarcely was in want for any other.

This sentimental heartbeat, this picturesque illustration of days recalled passed, had been sacrificed for almost the entirety of my life. And I go there, farther and farther back, it seems, to some illusory, originary moment I seem to hold onto like a lugubrious locket of my beloved’s hair. I enter another man’s life and poetry as though ‘twere my own. And I am suddenly vacated, absented, traumatized by the death of Peter Sellers, dead when I was ten, and he merely fifty-four, a man, I read, with no personality at all, just, I thought then, like me.

Day beyond day, I hold back. I refuse to compose another Requiem. Non serviam. Another crime, another criminal, another transgression, another man with loopholes for an ax inside his longcoat, perhaps. But I am certain the killer inside me is another pair of legs that steps beside a patch of violets, who heard the music when the voices were gone, who, boarded up in his icy rusticity, almost comic for the late nineteenth century, had dwelt a while, and for another yet there lingered.

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