II'll Keep On

I'm serious here, as I try to write myself out of this box, or am I trying to write myself into this box. What box? If I were elsewhere could I? And if so, where. Where am I suppose to be? Here or there. And if I'm always here, and suddenly go there, and stay, won't I be here then? Then it will be too late, but if I leave now, perhaps it will be too early Who am I to say? Who am I anyway? Am I a writer who must write in my own voice or am I a voice that must write to write here and there. And about what? If I merely write about me, will I bore myself sill. This is sill. These are the same questions I had before. Do I go back where I was. Or do I go forward. I'll keep on.

It's all I can do now There was a time when I could have stopped and gone to the beginning again, but I can't now, or can I? I'll keep on and banish that thought. Is it because I fear sliding back like I once feared moving forward? I'll keep on. I'll go on like rain aginst the window sill. Like the tapping of a snare with drumsticks that spew ink. The brushes against the brass cymbal that etch the long paragraph of the day., the cowbell aand triangle of night. There these pages will reek acid jaxx the performance of which will shout my nouns as whole notes and verbs as quarter noters, perhaps. The paradiddle lines beating out a piece that beckons back to an ancient rytha  recorded in the freezind air of another time. Back to Beckett.

But no record player, recorder transcribed those sounds of ancient transformative thought, not of Beckett of course. Beckett can take care of himself. He cand. He does. His thoughts up there on the shelves sing to themselves each night in the living room at night when I am asleep in the bedroom where II listen to the jazz of words. I know I have walked through to get to the kitchen and I have heard them. Clamboring away minamilistic chantind and drumming the soft sound of brushes on the side of the drum head. There I am here and can't hear it from here. But I can there. And it was there I know it be performing its percussion symphony. Only the words are different. The beast is the same. each time ----to be continued