T E N
Professor Martel continued
toward his startling conclusion:
This one last thing. A final
repeating thing. The ultimate
repeating thing. This other thing.
With time and humor and love.
Time. Repeating time. In my breath.
Walking. In my thoughts and words.
Humor. Repeating humor.
In my choices and death. My trips!
Love. Repeating love. My work.
In Linda, the waitress downstairs.
In the attentive librarian
with the uneven skirt.
Even in the love of my life
happy with the mechanic.
All these thoughts – the past
as “accumulated expressiveness,”
the continuum of
repeated things, the great enterprise
of expressively embodying
thoughts, shopping and cleaning –
I see these things, and this last thing,
this “I.” And more so than see,
these things – repeating things all! –
blaze and sing and make dizzy and
bring saliva to the tongue
and twist the stomach and arch warm
under a touch and perfume the air.
Life: The repetitions.
And this last thing.
This one last thing. A final repetition.
This sensual thing, non-sense
really something, somehow, somewhere.
I write these words, write all
these words – this repetition of words –
opening a pattern. Opening
something, somehow, somewhere.
An opening to this last thing.
This “I.” My “self.” Or my “soul.”
Like my breathing
this writing repeats. Repeating, continues.
Accumulates with time,
humor and love toward the ultimate
repetition of the ultimate
repeating thing. Rather
the final repetition
of the final repeating thing.
Time, humor and love.
And me! At least, my “soul,” that final me.
And everyone else,
all expressively accumulated.
I love these words, this writing,
this lettering of time. I laugh,
breathing, writing these words
expressing these thoughts because I know
these words repeat my soul! I write my self!
And time, humor, love . . .