even a week is sometimes
     not enough to recuperate
from a novel -
    something has borrowed too much
time and expects its worth a miracle of
a penny found on the road of
the eternal walker:
long the road toward a majesty
of the riches...

          whatever novel it might be -
and with it,
   a paralyzing ****** of doubts -
whether sober or intoxicated,
not even when: wine and music
and a book of poetry suffices...

just like now:
Beethoven, kalimotxo,
and the preferred gems by
Frank O'Hara to suit the music...
chez jane and blocks...
if ever there is something
missing in terms of
Beethoven: it's a voice reading
a poem,
  but not reading it,
not like a Beatnik who would
read in the furore of jazz
in the past century...
   anything more than what
is still not a whisper...

and like some farce of
the sword of Damocles...
the pen of Dickens...
        not the labours of a novel,
no... not the month's long
journey into the labyrinth...
music and drinking
simultaneously with a novel
will never work...

but a poem can...
my god... some wine some
classical music and... words...

   when there's music and wine
who needs words like
labyrinths when:
  just on the tip of the hour's
passing: a bird in the form
of a poem...

all i can say in the most mundane
phrasing...
   but i have capitulated
all prior to thrill and audacity
for a novel...
   a month's labour:
and silence...

   a soul in such hiding...
feels hardly a thought necessary
to reinvent itself in its prior
activity:
   an mingling of wine
and music and words: come and go...

like all novels:
  as much an accomplishment
of the writer, as an "accomplishment"
of the reader...
and is it so wrong
to not be agitated with emotion
that: a month's worth of
base arithmetic sentences -
the logic of: once upon a time
               as the logic: the end...

sanctity of prose:
  that sensible nature of that
sensible afternoon
  of that sensible life,
   of that: unlived crucifix
      of a shadow's confiscate;
routine and sitting
akimbo on some far removed
stage:
  of a sea knocking
on the door of earth -
seeking rhythm -
                          or a heart.

as mundane as this language:
i'm not going
to find a different language
to change this evening,
even though not awe:
or relief... but a paralyzing
doubt has overpowered me...
and, come to think of it:
that's still much more
than a heart's worth of
sitting's comforts in
        the armchair of apathy.