...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rleb3Syj_nA

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I

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... And once enough time had passed

He sat still at his little keyboard, set

Over a little table, tucked 

Into the corner

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Of a little hotel room - 

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A plain one, with bare walls

And a small balcony, looking out

Over the railroad tracks - of 

A little town, with a little school

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Beset on all sides

By high, high mountains

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And he tried to write something memorable, despite having 

Near if not nothing, of any real mode or mention

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With which to write about.

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II

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And he wrote painlessly -

The words formed with ease; no grueling

Struggle, no painstaking care,

No punctuative, precise sense of what

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Or wherefore, or to whom 

He wanted to succeed his words to.

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And that purposelessness

Rang out, in the way he'd form his broken sentences,

In the way he'd arbitrarily capitalize a clause,

In the way he'd performatively pause as if to consider

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The next segue into nothing.

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III

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And there was very little of any real note in it,

Nothing to cause one to reflect

Upon the implications of their lives - no grand

Messagery, no mystery, no madness.

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Though, beside himself he knew 

That the practice as a whole, as ritual, as prayer - 

As an autonomous, organic act, as a thing that grew

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Out from the touch of his fingertips and

Entangling between the letter-keys

Before landing upon the page -

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Had meant more to him over the course of his life 

Than any one person, of any sort of acquaintance 

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Could ever hope to know. 

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And so in writing, even nothing, 

Even such wash so as to line 

The lower basin

Of a feeding trough, he would laugh, still

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As he did it, and it would give him such 

Pleasure, such cursory satisfaction, 

That only he himself 

As both author, and recipient

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Could ever conceivably understand.

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Lightning in a bottle, he'd say,

It was never really meant to last.

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