The brambles of hair on my forearms have become
--in the humming summer sun--
like ripened flax
against the good brown earth of my skin.
And in the buzzing,
a July night's insect chorus,
one swears one can hear the engines --
of planes,
of jets,
of flying saucers spinning
yarns from other galaxies,
(yawns from this one)
knitting brows and browsing
possibility
on these antennae.
The harvest of hairs,
shaved by the wind's warm breath,
stand erect again...
this shiver,
this hunger for the sun, this belief
or better this knowledge
of the eternal as it burrows
beneath the crops and climbs the tops
of ancient trees
or drops
like waterfalls
down upon his prayerful knees,
wholly absorbed
in the sound,
his own breathing.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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