reading is my shallow-breathing time of day.
the impress of transit is upon me.
taking in the journey of meaning,
a here before me to there within me, discourse.
a dialogue eventually in a monologue format.
at worst, a perusal,
but generally the work towards a curious find.
hounded by the blather of conclusions
as if the remedies
for an unsaidness in response,
in the pretend of a dialogue, out of a read.
there was a supposed interest, initially.
a stage where habit and curiosity intend to meet up,
not expecting stage presence to appear out of words,
possibly as much as an animal shelter cruise can provide.
but usually more like driving by billboards, slowly,
is the kind of interest range anticipated.
since most topics don’t take my breath-away, kind of interest.
no, not tragedy, not political intrigue,
not wily financial premises, not even novel science will do.
just an upkeep of informational babble is all.
I wanted original think,
that is not thought provoked
a read just doesn’t set me off.
at best, it’s just a tease.
I need a heartfelt invitation to move me.
read is usually too indirect.
give me people, faces, sideway glances,
and the impact of human energies invisibly,
sent my way.
that will send me into a deep think mode,
to the compelling drawnness of the undisclosed.
where feel has a discernible input status,
where think has bottomless wells,
and a refreshing vacancy,
is always close at hand.
there, that’s what my day’s fill should be . . .
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