“Go into the room . . .”, and: Four Craft Ballads, and: Lines toward a Well-Crafted Ballad

“Go into the room . . .”

Go into the room and be reimbursed. Emerging original, continue the way you came, until you reach the new addition: another déjà vu. I know you will wonder if you may be ill or whether you had foreseen something gentler or if the syndrome will progress and make the place starkly inadequate. Notwithstanding the emergency exits, the hiccups and assorted other temporal inconsistencies, trembling, cinders popping and descending, sending relays, some convoluted narrative of deep glee, terrible phantoms, or sucker punches (depending), there, in the paltry, diced lamplight from the porch, amid split rinds stale and stinking, from that platform any hesitation is a kind of refusal. Don’t watch the moon. Do something. Therein a cluster of syllogisms and other acts of attrition collapse every petty attraction into immediate adieus. Love is impossible or inevitable, then. I know you will wonder which, or whether more or less promissory and/or preemptive deliberations might help. It’s doubtful, you’ll agree. I know that look, and what it says is nothing if not, “Yes, but perhaps this is the moon I stand on, and not my planet. Is there anything to drink? Who am I speaking with? Can I come home? Will you have me as I am? How am I? How are you? Who built the ship? Is it improper to ask?” You’re procrastinating, now. So kiss me.

Four Craft Ballads

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