That final shot got me, as I lay down only to get the spins. Unleveled, I sway without moving, or was it my eyes that did the swaying? Like a child with wings spread out, turning foot by foot, round and round and round, eyes closed and the world shakes for a few moments when stopped. Not knowing if I’m upside down or right side up. The ease of being out of control, for once, and not knowing when my next breath will be and what will happen when it comes. It’s nice. Slow-motion inhalations and exhalations, while watching life through foggy, little windows. Playing connect the dots. The game of tops. Quarters set into motion, with quick twists that slow to a wobble and fall. Moments pass and the ground becomes still. My body moves. The bore sets in.
Herbert’s altar. Shakespeare’s meter. Bishop’s sestina. Without it, there is a loss of function and the block cannot hold. When I first began writing, I abandoned any form whatsoever. The words, I believed, would reveal themselves. The conjuring of randomness in my mind that arbitrarily had disseminated onto the page was wonderful, I thought, as I sprawled them nonsensically onto paper. The editor confusedly looked at me. This makes no sense. Like a preposition without an object, line after line, my thoughts sat lukewarm and undecipherable. That extra blank space at the top of the page. The column of single words strewn diagonally across the white, unexplained because it looks cool. Flitting on a whim. The potential to be misunderstood is great, and it is a pity when a thought is obscured by its overuse or under-use or misuse of punctuation.