Monday, August 01, 2005

Am on Fellini kick. His camera moves.

Must be unhinging from the jigsaw shoulders on the couch... watching men in white robes in steam baths disappear into abstract arches on the screen, imagine making a roast that was stuffed with anchovies, shredded daikon, pureed onion... then roast walked off into this moment where I wonder how long it would be before the perfect circle between

my ankle on his hip
and the curve of his elbow against my neck.

It's an eternity. I imagine the mad would never be sure

when the precipitous task would arrive
if the precipitous task was in fact a symbolic repetition of events past
that events were constantly speaking to each other
and that this was the moment before death, born to be relived
as a present that remembers the past.


But the kitchen smells bad. I must finish my book before the big move tomorrow.