Young Man sat on the tippy of the troth, spigot below issuing as if urinous, but an altogether different substance: cold sparkling mountain well water.
Tumbling well into troth, singsong.
Big bulbous clouds shifted through the occasional sky, scattering words of precipi(ce)tation at odd intervals, contrasting the opposing slang of light, domain of sun-star sitting, si' 3, in place.
sliding across a second and merely theoretical low winter horizon.
Rising of the head to glimpse & breathe, to feel the temperamental caress of wind blowing through the shaggier elements of his bedraggled garb around him. A dirty hand wiped across the face circles sensation back inward, bearing a distinct relation to the fundamental autoeroticism that all creatures benefit from.
That wind. Reminds of how cold it really is, despite all contrary efforts of the Sun to convince otherwise. The only alonely at the well on this afternoon--he reflects, but yet he is surrounded by cousins and uncles and great-grandmothers in other than human form. Distinct he sat from them, yet related, and conscious thereof, moving toward more conshy, more reminder, denser relation, chills issuing up and down the spine in response to drastic and rapid tempora(turea)l variation sensation.
in the cool quiet of trickle he praises the starkness, the stricture, the umbilical withering of an old set of rigorous distinctions. his body feels good and strong for the work done of late, just sore enough to reveal immersion continued in the pro-cess. just dirty enough on the surface, just clean enough on the internal to get by again and walk steps of praise on the mother and think thoughts of praise on the father and sing songs of inbetween, distilling out the vibrant from a murky past.
remembering words with some effort, he brings his voice to this place and lays it at angles around sagebrush, juniper, pinyon, goats, sheep. The goat mother appeared to him at a distant theis early morning, among the snow, and informed him that all was well. He went and fed her children: suckle, suckle--anxious lives growing into themselves, he a conduit at best for such.
Things all work outoutout, the cold wind said from the south, blowing him back in among the four directions.
Stiff and cold eyelids strained upwards + he was reminded by sartre through his squint of being that we are all always responsible for the expression on our face.
Yes, mr. sartre, and especially when noone is looking.
-2/16/00, pauline's well, big mountain
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enter mumbles at the top(as of 7/00)