Wednesday, January 24, 2018

My Pencils Get Way Out of Hand

My pencils get way out of hand. They squiggle their
bounty licentiously into crass wannabe art nouveau
swells – enough that they ought for a time to be banned,
and remanded to moderate hells: say, some carbon
equivalent of going down on one’s knees to scrub tiles
in latrines. But there aren’t equivalents, really; unless it’s
what pipe smokers do in a pinch when they run out of pipe
cleaners: push a slim pencil by fractions of inches right into
the flue of a briar, distinctly as if it were scraping the soot
and the tar and the ash of a fire off brick in a hearth.
But I don’t smoke pipes. And, gripes about how they
transgress notwithstanding, I’m secretly thrilled that they
not only don’t make a mess but go mad for kaleidogram
symmetries: that they joyously leap into all opportunities
to create unity they then divide into pleasing geometry,
set up in balanced asides. Ergo, I grant them immunity
de la plupart des anciennes lois. They’re free to cause riots
of silly buffoonery now with impunity. As long as their play
offers symmetry not one whit less than Versailles. As long
as when I come upon them I cannot not sigh an “Oh My!”


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