I am at work, hands flitting over the keyboard like birds (I love typing. These are my piano keys, black and white, the ivory, melody making letters symbols hieroglyphs...), taking a break, how sly, to update this journal. A break from typing in silly theses titles like - 'Cyclo-trimerisation reactions of alkynes' and 'Time resolved studies of
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http://www.kissthewitch.co.uk/seinundwerden/sein.html
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The Pedestal
by Michael Chmielecki
I am troubled by the pedestal.
Carved out of the same rock
as the walls of this cave. Caught
in the light of the cataract outside
booming and throwing its awful height
to the floor of the stone-broken wash.
Shouldn't something sit upon this stand?
Some rare token, a guarded statue?
Why is it bare but for the liquid
pooling and trilling
on its empty base?
So straight and harsh in foreign angles --
why hasn't nature moved it, calmed it?
How many hands toiled at this thing
to cause it to give me such a feeling
of permeating sentience?
It feels too holy to discard.
Otherwise I would topple it down
and watch the cataract tear it away.
I'd fly back to the States, quite drunk,
and forget I ever touched it.
It waits for my decision ...
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And your zine is quite nice. Very tasty morsels in there!
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