Wednesday, March 19, 2003

Promethianism - 3-4-03

I feel the raw fires of creation today
burning in my gut
tingling my digits
titillating my brain

It freezes me
crystalizes my flesh in fractal potential
I am still
solid and paused
mind engulfs the stone
form prone as etheric tendrils
-psychological pseudopodia-
stretch in all directions
three-hundred-sixty degrees of desperation
frantically search for a medium

The fire dances to music
rolls in its constant possibility
these fingers would fumble
I know
they are children with much to learn
of soul
and scale and chord
and pathos
and press of string to wood
they would tease the fire and it would shrink
leaving in need
unsatisfied through the back door

Drawing, then?
The chance of the point
the line
the supplication of the empty page
might overwhelm
and, again, the clumsiness of these hands
would douse creation in self doubt
or cool it in methodology

this power has no patience
what medium is mercurial enough to please?
to make it last?
The speed of thoughts
fired off rapid and tempting
tics, dos, lows, sees, and hmms
and all the vowel sounds of the rainbow

I can hear them now
perhaps I'll write them down
and it will be a start . . .