BED OF ROSES
For Mark Daniel Cohen
I lie on my bed and am making lists of cultures I prefer. The smell culture is at the top. The touch and the taste culture compete with the visual. The culture of the sixth sense is what it is: unfathomable. Through Bach, I’m synchronizing my zero energy with that of my friend, the Cohen of New York. His body is shattered to pieces. Fragments of leg scattered in the streets of New York are gathered at the hospital, also in New York. “Something dark,” he tells me. “Write something dark for me,” he insists, but I can’t. I think of the dark chocolate he received from his kid. A smart kid who was instructed well into the art of distinction. I’m not surprised. The Cohen is a poet, and as such he believes everything that Blake said: “Less than All cannot satisfy Man.” I’m thinking of bringing Romanian pastrami and chopped liver from the deli, and the fire, storm, and salt sea in the mighty cucumber in dill. The high note of the huge tone of rose absolute in my perfume, and one which only the trained ones can spot, interferes with the indole of the almost nature morte of the yellow leg. What does he love and long for, this writer himself, who also believes everything that Baudelaire said about the things that have “the expansion of infinite things”? Love and longing smell of vastness. My Rive Gauche and the stolen Calandre in it orchestrate a Merovingian dance. The long-haired king accepts the gift from the Snow Queen: grace as excess. The body turns olive again. And so does the mouth after finishing with counting what the sum of nine ones times nine ones is. Petals ascend and descend on the bed of elevens, heralding the Sun High-One.
I lie on my bed and am making lists of cultures I prefer. The smell culture is at the top. The touch and the taste culture compete with the visual. The culture of the sixth sense is what it is: unfathomable. Through Bach, I’m synchronizing my zero energy with that of my friend, the Cohen of New York. His body is shattered to pieces. Fragments of leg scattered in the streets of New York are gathered at the hospital, also in New York. “Something dark,” he tells me. “Write something dark for me,” he insists, but I can’t. I think of the dark chocolate he received from his kid. A smart kid who was instructed well into the art of distinction. I’m not surprised. The Cohen is a poet, and as such he believes everything that Blake said: “Less than All cannot satisfy Man.” I’m thinking of bringing Romanian pastrami and chopped liver from the deli, and the fire, storm, and salt sea in the mighty cucumber in dill. The high note of the huge tone of rose absolute in my perfume, and one which only the trained ones can spot, interferes with the indole of the almost nature morte of the yellow leg. What does he love and long for, this writer himself, who also believes everything that Baudelaire said about the things that have “the expansion of infinite things”? Love and longing smell of vastness. My Rive Gauche and the stolen Calandre in it orchestrate a Merovingian dance. The long-haired king accepts the gift from the Snow Queen: grace as excess. The body turns olive again. And so does the mouth after finishing with counting what the sum of nine ones times nine ones is. Petals ascend and descend on the bed of elevens, heralding the Sun High-One.
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