Another Test

The question’s not to be or not – hey, who’s that man behind the curtain?

Does he dare to eat a peach? No, I’m certain we reach into other regions

of – I want to say intention! – I wish there were intention! – I wish that I

believed in guidance from a hand or from a holy man or from the grandeur

of a Bach to Bach seduction, and it doesn’t mean I don’t, that is, “believe”,

it’s just it doesn’t matter. Want to shatter into bits? Believe in sociopathy.

Or cleave to opportunity instead, when you are rolling out of bed and take

your shambles to the bathroom and regard the thing that mirrors back

into your eyes as not-so-bad this morning come, perhaps, to think.

Today your soul may come to drink from some new just-discovered spring.

Let’s get practical about this drawing thing. You say it’s random. Is it?

Is it like the physics in that quizzical imagined business called mutation?

Stick a “random” on mutation: Darwin did, Darwin thought he had to. Or is

questioning esthetic? Is there an impulse toward the beautiful? When I got

my six buck sale-price plastic bag of Sharpies, did it mean I wouldn’t start

my next perplexity emerging from the void? Mutation can’t be random.

It starts from something proven, there, like Steuben glass looked on a shelf

all lit up like a brain when you were ten, a class trip to the city. It wasn’t pretty.

It was crucial. Rain’s not random: it’s solution. Inevitable child of two

parental elements deciding that the temperature is right not just, as always,

to collide but to collude in something so salubrious it has the power to enact

a generating enterprise, to aid a thing to breed. It changes need into creation.

Water is a dare. To eat a peach. To reach the man behind the curtain.
To be or not to be a question. Somewhere there’s another test. And

.