Wednesday, August 21, 2013

The Dance Novel

While they danced, Frances
visualized her high school days.
She could hear
the 50s music
superimposed on the beats
she was hearing with her ears.

These days, they tell you where the rhythm is,
you don't have to feel it. As they danced,
bumping with the rhythm, they did not touch.
They exercised their own imaginations.

Everything is
programmed these days. They tell you
how to play and organize the moves.
They tell you how to learn and
what to learn and
threaten you with poverty
if you don't follow.

While they danced, time
bunched up at the end point.
The present moved much
slower than the past streamed in.
Her mind terminated the flow of the past
and there was a blockage that filled
the empty cells of memory.

As she moved, gesticulating
seemingly meaninglessly but not meaninglessly,
she carried a wealth in the heaviness of her.

We have to write about
reality, if we are going to write, not theory.
Theory is rarified
even if it's the most important thing.

We spend our few yearning,
hungry years here, with each other,
with our human furniture.
We don't have time
for explanation.

Paul couldn't resist.
He eventually reached out for the woman's hand
and pulled her close.


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