Thursday, April 14, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

He does not convey a pulse. His recitation can be added, multiplied
and must be thus. For he thrives apart from blood beat, and his face
shrinks, as his words fall, as his thoughts lift. Where is the heart,
how does the eye light, who perceives the touch scape of intention
where tension might be substituting for the real leaves? I ought to
leave this place and be for him in his place letting go the transcript
for the trance. I ought to genuflect to higher thought. I ought to offer
to be ghost speak for his stance. He gives what he has left, and it is
all (too little anymore). He think, he pauses, and his words just drop.
I want to predicate next moves on moves concrete enough to lock horns
with another (set of horns). So anybody knows there is a state, there is
a thing, there is a cast across the wake. Something was heard. Something
symphonic hastens, happens, halts the inflammation.

Sensory supposing vowel sounds forwarded with cloaking consonants

Sheila E. Murphy

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