Chattelblueskyblue

A Portobello blue sky, a blue chattel dress blue sky blue. A sharecropper’s yellow moon; this substantial form; goodness me, so this is what has become of me, corruptibility, incorruptibility, a sharecropper’s oxen scythe taking me off just above the knee. A spoiled milk sky, a creamery of blue-steel, pox-clouds sullying a plainness of sky, whey separated from curd; lactose bigoted. No; a bowery sky, scullery with grime and sludge, a mire of brown-sky, a stain of sky; a debasement. Skeletal trees tonsured with pre-solstice fretting, branches at arms-length, a crapulence of rot and wither. Today I will purchase draperies for my bedroom window. And these nasty polemarks: [and] jammy tarts, the ones great aunt Alma made in the summer kitchen, crimping pastry into taffeta frills, and my great uncle Jim standing on the front porch, his good eye threaded with sweat, waving at tourist’s cars, and my dad eating date squares and rarebits of toast, and me, sitting on the back stoop counting to one hundred backwards, making daisy chains with whistle grass and nettle fens, the afternoon fading into August night. As a meat caracole disgusts me, as does fleet-footed dancing and luncheon pork, the kind with macaroni and pimento, olives and soy by-products, tiny nubs of gristle and bone, I abhor it all, all of it all. Caracole, of course, is an equestrian move performed by horse and rider, feet clacking in stirrups, bridle pulled back to prevent bucking and off cantor, an elegant pas de duet. In Mexico the caracole is performed by a picador, topknot pomade, feet splayed to form a plea-A, dodging boxthorn and lancet, a hurrah, hurrah issuing from the Mescalero’s. This is ridiculous, as I know nothing about Mescalero’s, caracole, pimentos, olives or gristle. Please, I abjure you, repress and re-censor this Grammatik infanticide, for he knows not of what he speaks, and, might he/I add, Holden Caulfield was a crummy bastard, I/he much prefer Ackley, the great Nietzschean tightrope walker, imbiber of cocktails and gimlets. Cigarette paper leaves stained nicotine brown, yellow, the advent of death and wither. In decay and perish, such life and advent, an august autumn, the time of fester and blain. Having written myself into a teleological wasteland, a Bradley(lian) corner, I must seek out an erasure, an epistemic wipecloth. If I could but close my eyes and rethink the process, all would be well, but as I can’t (Kant) I have no other recourse than to Oedipal-eyes. I asked today what the difference is between something that given to us by God and something that is inherent, or not given to us by God. Are they the same thing, a twinning, two sides of the same coin? If we are given free-will by God, then can we know who the giver is? If we can, then aren’t we giving back what the giver gave us, the ability to exercise our will freely? It seems to me that give and inherent are the same thing, identical twins with identical nominal value, a given give giver. All things, then, are given and therefore not inherent, unless inherent means to be given, which I doubt it does. If God is the giver of all things, free-will, intellect, will and the capacity to exercise said gifts, the given gives, then are we really given anything at all, or is the given really the give, the God who gives give to the given? I am giving myself a splitting headache, a give given by me the giver, given my capacity, or gift, to exercise my free-will, which is given freely, but never given back to the giver, the give given giver given. Now the words give, given and giver have lost all meaning for me, they are as senseless as the free-will I have been given, yet can never give back to the giver, or for that matter, know who the giver is, because if I knew who the giver was, or is, I would be the giver, identical to the give given giver give. I hate metaphysics and the fact that I am so darn crappy at it. I best stay with counting and recounting, tabulating and re-tabulating, correlating and re-correlating, as they are things, actions of my not-so-free-will, that I seem to have some control over, albeit a puerile and vacuous one, a not-yet-given given control of.