.
For
Brian Fraley
.
It
came to me, whole, in a blink!
I
awakened to realize I think
that
what reads as self-confidence
mostly
reveals that you’ve given a toss
to
the dross of all thoughts about how
.
to
the critical mass of the world
you
appear to appear to be doing -
how
adeptly you’ve managed to look
like
a cook or a welder or rector
or
wrestler or master of chess -
.
whose
miens and demeanors
profess
they’re the best - exactly
what
who you imagine the audience
whom
you’ve imagined expects.
You
imagine yourself as a selfie
.
of
somebody stirring the pot.
Until
the reverberant moment
arrives
when you catch yourself
being
the stirring
- no longer
the
suave arabesque of a chef
.
but
immersed in immersing
a
spoon in the stew and being it
stewing.
You’re
not Do-er or Do:
you’re
what you’ve been Doing.
You
began as a proper-ish noun
.
named
Herbert, now Herbert
(though
he prefers Herb) is eternally
vanishing
rapturously into verb –
shot
over the brink from the famished
redactions
of measurable to the luscious
sweet
seeps of the mammary glands
of
the treasurable: he wasn’t
nor
isn’t nor One Day Will Be.
From
Monday to Sunday, believe me,
he’s
not what you’ll think you will see.
.
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