pa rum pum pum pum

Reading before writing is risky business… gumbo with word salad… you get words, ideas, and then that moment of thought that drives through the skull much the same as a migraine without the pain. Memory.

Memory rises and I do not speak then. I know there are those who will find that upsetting. They will not understand. How can they understand? I sit still… fingers cease to be poised upon the keys… the clatter of the typing stops. Time shifts… freed from the hands of the clock… time drifts on the warm flat seas of Memory… and drowns like puppies in a distant sink of another place.

Is it a tear that calls attention, or the change of breath? Do I shudder as I sit or am I still? She is there swiftly and without a word, emerging into view. It is an intensely personal moment… a surrendered portion of my life to her…a permission granted though need and love… a permission taken in solemn trust through desire and love. What is this marriage if not the union of two into one through need, trust and love?

How hot the flesh and yet so cool the touch. Memories… a moment… drawn into an embrace and sheltered… a world pressed upon me… the world pressed upon me… fished from the drifting seas with the torn mesh of a net of love…

I meant to talk about the small towns and their peculiar ways… to talk of gumbo in the form of tuna fish sandwiches… to talk of the jam that goes with toast… the small little memories. I meant to offer to scarecrow something in exchange for the gumbo with word salad…

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?