Bloomsday Poem

Ineluctable modality of interpolated memories, what being this size, as they say. And sometimes, sometimes the words just won’t come out and the world of people, a prison, a prism that cracks and dishes light that I can only breathe in, in tiny gasps of breath because otherwise it’s too much, my lungs just aren’t that large, but still the soulfulness of the sounds and the symphony of the spectrum from feeling ten feet tall to a tenth of an inch to be stepped on, thought through my eyes. And we all hold it. It’s a coarsely feathered nest that surrounds us like a wearing, tearing halo by our guardian angels who hold our logos in their robes, and temperature and air and the view of sky from beds that can be hard to soft to anything always reflecting an experience ineluctable to words, just a childish need to bark ‘I Am’ for otherwise we could only all be readers, glinting, glaring from inside our sleeping sacks, contemplating, unworded, the Signatures of all things I am here to read, I am here TO read, but is that really it? Is that the best answer we’ve come up with? For maybe it is just to play pinball. To bounce and hit and hope and let the lights bright up yelling ding! ding! ding! And the glass above recalls only the Limit of the diaphane but as such we are limited, as such, such are we children, with little stints of fashionable display and rebellion and pointed ambitions, all of which eventually fall, sleepily, back into sack, for to Fall, like the crest of a wave, back into the mass that is the ocean. Shut your eyes and see.