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WATCHER'S SYNDROME

(A Case Of) WATCHER'S SYNDROME

 

             (Variations on a Theme by Alan Graham)

 

THE CURVE is advancing

Above the linear progression,

Above expected norms . . .

    Have I returned to my listening post too late?

       I have a feeling . . .

    No fear, just a feeling . . .

The curve is progressing . . .

 

High above the flat earth

And deepening toward descent;

    Perhaps I played a bit too near the edge.

I suppose it happens to all

    Listeners

    At some time or another . . .

 

The indices are advancing

In unexpected curve,

Somewhere, the inexplicable . . .

    Upped from the planet surface

    A ripe orange.

       I take a deep bite

    Feeling the fragrant oils tingle

       My lips and tongue,

    A new sensation--

       Lips and a tongue.

 

    I dreamed of this planet

       Saw my self clothed in their flesh

       My listening post forgotten . . .

          A harvest of bright kisses

          Sheaves of whole wheat tears

             Your lips brushing mine

             Your tears running down my cheeks

Cradled in your embrace

I forgot my Duty

And the cold sharp years of space.

I dreamed of your room

    Porcelain teacups

    Enameled with roses

       We ate an orange together.

I dreamed us nude before a fire

    A lover's smile flickering on your lips

       You spoke

    Of the midnight angel

    Who stands with his back to the stars

    And forecasts secret futures

    By the shadows of his hands

       And I hushed you

    For I would not speak of my work.

       You told me

          Life is not breath,

             But volition;

                It's not intense,

                   It's intention . . .

 

                Grain fields of collected kisses

                    Bright tears in moonlight

                       Blue-eyed huntress

                 Thunderheads of emotion rising

                     Your every move erotic

        Grey-brown horizons to purple planetary distances

        A lock of blonde hair so intriguingly fell . . .

 

For every God there is a mountain

For every action there is a passion

For every longing there is a absence

    There is an absence here

    In this pseudo-life

    This observer's plane

       Observer's pain

    Watching, listening, reporting . . .

 

I pursue . . .

Seeking a future state

I am aware,

    But to what aim?

Water and wind

Conspire to wear the stone

I am aware

    Of what?

I look to future awareness,

What will I do with it

That I am not now doing?

Do I pursue

    Futility?

 

  . . .And the curve continues

In abnormal advance.

A change is happening down there.

    I have a feeling . . .

Shall I wear gloves of skin?

Make direct inspection?

    Perhaps an apprehension . . .

If the curve rises much higher

They will intervene

And then another 20,000 years

Of watching

Them climb out of the mud

They,

    We,

Will have put them back into . . .

 

I have a feeling . . .

    Maybe I need a change . . .

 

                                  9 Apr 81

        

 


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