Thursday, October 4, 2012

squatch thoughts: a perfect night


One, two, third, men.

One, eight, thirty-one, men.

Eighty-seventh, sixteen, four, men.

Listen! You think me dumb in numbers, men, and count my counting wrong, but listen, men, and count as I do. Count as this world shows you, not as you believe.

One, two, ninety, a hundred and seventy-four, men, then a thousand million. Then a perfect night. 

Did you miss that, men? Did you miss the stars emerging in the darkening sky? First one, then ninety, then a thousand million, men. Mind the perfect stars, men, and count as they do. Mind them true!


One, eight, six hundred and one, three thousand and fourteen, men, then suddenly eight hundred, then suddenly sixty-three, then four, then none. See how I count the cold snowflakes as they fall one upon another, tumbling through winding winds, falling fast then slowing, men, then done. Then, men, they melt on the warm swamp. Ten, three, none. They melt there, men.

Hear the swamp, men! Mind what’s warm there. The swamp tells you that what you count disappears.


Disappear here

Count stars, men, and the sun’s light claims them at the pink dawn. What you count melts in the light. Count snowflakes, men, in that small snow squall, and see if you get any satisfaction. Count them and they’re gone, men, claimed by the swamp that claims my footprints.

Count me not in numbers, men. Count me real!

Listen, men! Hear my voice? Hear the howl at the hilltop, hear the echo off the distant lakeshore? Then listen! Mind me! I am a star! I am one, third, a thousand million! Listen!

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