Sticky Sublime, Bill Beckley
We dream of traveling through the world.
But isn't the world within us?
We little know the depths of our own mind.
The mysterious road goes inwards.
Novalis
What is a breath, and what must a weaving be, so as to come into
being again as a breath?
Harold Bloom
Seesaws go up and down, sliding boards go down.
You hang on monkey bars every which way.
Swings fly you over the heads of grown-ups.
The air rushes up your skirt, in your panties, through your hair,
and around your fingertips.
The horizon moves, and things that you are used to,
seem different.
But soon it gets weird.
John John must have felt it on that sad summer night when he plunged his Piper into the sea.
He was cute.
He was lost.
The horizon dissolved like molasses in hot black coffee.
His daddy knew exactly where he was going when he died, all those people watching, that sunny afternoon.
He never knew what hit him.
And they'll never know who did it. That's what's really weird.
You can still get lost in it.
But when you fly on a swing, your legs, your arms, your head, are all pushing you up, and over that bar.
You can't stop; you don't want to, until you drop from the sky and...splat.
Well, not really--that's the fun.
Anyway, I'm too old for it now. I don't think about it anymore. I just let it happen.
I mean, the way that you see slips into the way that you feel?
Bill Beckley, December 8, 2000