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Wonderful History --

by  seanfarragher

Posted: Monday, March 21, 2005
Word Count: 428
Summary: for Spring and April to come --
Related Works: Broken Photographs, Dutch Art and Time Machines • Fountain of Youth • Hurrah, Hooray, Huzzah • Parnassus • 

Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.

Wonderful History
By Sean Farragher

I watch history forever. I calm it. I pursue it.
I am an envelope for historical chance
and the exceptions mirror the rules so help me.

Clean the air not the words of long time ago
make it an umbrella that catches that rigor
the unkempt wind and the broken irregular
stampede of Bison that in its organization
has the hold on dust, and the kicking up heels
and the rest of the dirt that history has broken
down with out any memory, none. No one's left
to keep track of the variations and exceptions --
history drifts with a plain song and dark eye

I cannot find my hands in this quarrel.
The rules of the dance are not an orderly wave.
I am not the best anchor for truth in this masque.
I can unroll events and breech them out of sequence.
I destroy time in that dark, very dangerous,
unpredictable lesson. I do not mark down error.
Do you feel that death is calling from outside
the margin? Do you expect the real world or some
fabrication, some virtual dirge, and then the music
in largo, as a dangerous dance becomes deadly.

How can I measure life in this orderly way when
what I imagine has no center, no rigor, nothing
but the colors shifting in water color puddles
clouds on the white sky are green then golden,
nothing predicts what splendor revises. I am fool
you know as I trample the paths to shape another
vision, one without my death, an end to my line
and when I count forward I find the broken shells
where I never lived and truth becomes a lie.

No one is sacred today. No energy for cleanliness
or the transmission of pain by steps or slaps or
sex on the margin of alive. I am so alive. I am fire
on the inside of the mouth where the tremble, twitch
and the twanger settle in place where we arrange
one masterpiece of great dimension, a passion
for April to welcome daffodils and azaleas --
the fragrance of pollen and insects reaches
down and backward to the dirty, unkempt sky
with a caress like no disorder before or after.
We are the revolution in the spirit, and fucking
is permitted in the grass, beach and waves.
We are assembled as spirit and skin,
eyes and lips, where the line of one meets the other
waiting oh circus, beloved clown for that luscious kiss --
that astounding festival where we walked on the moon.