The Word Weevil

I have been trying to write a poem about The Two Breaths of God. It is not working out just yet. It seems that something is to be learned here and I wanted to write it out.

At this point, I have a rough draft that I don’t understand, I have this outline that is a series of labeled boxes with arrows:

I have scrawled some bits diagonally, sometimes in the dark.

"Warm breath on the neck, he < illegible > his chin but does not turn around."

"Fur from the killing of a noble beast."

"The cold breath that comes across places too beautiful to build atop."

My heart is just not in it. I am not feeling enthusiasm for it. Writing feels like a chore. That might partially be the natural outgrowth of writing so much at work lately. Something about the subject was slippery.

To day I got to thinking that it is perhaps a pretty concept but entirely wrong. I don’t know that I can support it.

The idea came from some freewriting. The Two Breaths are:

Hot: Building, Warming, Civilizing, Painting
Cold: Destroying, Chilling, Wilding, Writing.

Get it? A duality? Aren’t I clever.

"And start climbing, start feeling cooling gusts through the window."

"New Mexico in the morning. She made coffee. Worked into a place or gliding over it."

"When it is cold breath it paints cracks upon walls it paints ivy into those cracks. It paints fine wrinkls on the faces and paints the definition of each skull throught the skin."

…a duality that god. Excuse me, I meant God–has two modes. It is a system of categorizing and understanding.

They are interesting. Painter to painting. Writer to writing. The building up and the breaking down. Duality is easy, but what good is an opposition at all? Today, while walking my gimpy dog in a brief glint of sunlight, I thought taht God would not use dualities. He (ahem. Just leave that alone, please) would not need to.

I put it to you that a duality is a model. If you hear a duality it is not a statement of truth but a method of understanding. Regardless if the stater makes an abosolute statement, it is not an absolute and it is a filter. I think most dualities can be overthrown. A light bulb is either on and off. Until you install a reostat.

So do I continue the poem? I am hoping that I can find a way for it to be fun and to feel important. Right now I don’t. But I want to write and this is the project before me. I still scrawl about it…I am right now. Maybe I will turn something out from it. Maybe it will have some truth in it.

Perhaps I will end the poem by controverting it. The breaths break down. The poet throws up his hands. God smiles.

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Mostly, as I made tea, I thought about exactly how hot a pepper sprout is. I do not know. It does not Google well and there is no wikipedia article.

The passenger seat voice that relates to yesterday’s post.

You are not relief, you are
the impossible, unjust doldrum
which just unthreaded my omnibus dreams,

Welcomes me back from these painless travels
through every spot of my life at one time.

[Waking into sunlight] I think this is unnecessary
too early not ready
The hum of the world, summoned to this car

A baseline, the breath
I stretch up and turn –

You are dusty in the driver’s seat
with all this light

You blink, I remember –
The future comes through the vents.