"the most superb mystery we have hardly recognized: the immediate instant self. the quick of all time is the instant. the quick of all the universe, of all creation, is the incarnate, carnal self. poetry gave us the clue: free verse: whitman." - d.h. lawrence



i sat at my desk in the study (tap, tap, tap), twirling a pen in a broad arching motion between two fingers and around a fantastically ancient center, as it popped punctiliously against the desk's ridge. "i'm dying for some tea."

earlier, i'd been lying on the couch reading "sputnik sweetheart" with a complex, apple-hued bourbon, or more aptly, appropriately described as fig infused: diabolique. we'd plans for dinner, violet and i, and i was trying to do some work before the appointed time, when i came across her name while reading. violet, in japanese, sumire, or the title of mozart's piece "das veilichen," violet, taken from a goethe poem, violet, later played by elizabeth schwartzkopf and walter giesking. violet - a green field, one purple flower, a bolt of lightning across a black sky: serendipity.

as i sat in the study, jotting, pondering, the phone rang. it was violet. she sounded alarmed or frantic.

"liam, i'm scared."

"what's wrong?" i said, rather taken aback.

"it's oscar. he called me earlier... he told me something's wrong, very wrong, like he might have a brain tumor or something."

"huh? what?"

"he went to the doctor this morning, and they told him he has a lump on his brain."

"jesus. are you okay... is he?"

"i don't know. he does go to the doctor a lot, say if he got food stuck in his eye. and lots of people have lumps on their brains."

"um... what do you want to do?"

"i'm going to stay with him tonight."

"okay. call me later."

and so i looked out to the gray-cambric chasm of the cloudy evening with the twilight breeze scattering small spring raindrops across the aery asphalt. as plans were cancelled, i immediately felt restless. there was nothing i could do for oscar. he could be faking after all. the jealous little... ah. i threw on my jacket and stepped outside. it was one of those nights where i'd light a cigarette on a street corner with the solitude i craved and couldn't stand, and the whole world would be laughing at the whole goddamn theatre of it. i walked down through the city to a bar to grab a bite and some beers, but as i stepped inside, the place was overflowing with people and laughter and n.b. light-hued warmth, so i left.

walking through the city, sad, restless, uncertain, with the tiny raindrops dropping carelessly, i felt a kind of freedom and maybe some unforeseen adventure. it was what i knew, and it still felt comfortable, if only because i knew what was to come. one would be a river flowing to a racing skull. two would be the maculae of a smile i almost knew, and these sometimes tasteless trivialities would please me hugely. i walked back across the city toward the square.

entering the bar, i saw that she was working. i took a seat on a stool.

"hi."

"hi."

i ordered a beer. and in the silent void, i heard the entire world transversing through space under planetary afflictions. a quick whistle. distant cities. the screech of the tracks...

i shall go forth,
i shall traverse the states a while - but i cannot tell whither or how long;
perhaps soon, some day or night while i am singing, my voice will suddenly
cease: walt whitman