04-08-2024, 11:10 AM
In the shadow of Don Quixote
I rode. Stars burned in my eyes
while thoughts swirled half-formed
and muddled, but gorgeous
like Monet in a duel with Van Gogh.
Nothing was impossible.
And then. Words.
Words burrowed deep into my brain
and sliced their way under my skin.
My beautiful windmill became a giant.
Or was it the other way around?
The truth of his face has been lost.
My eyes burned dim and then out.
My body became a pincushion full of words,
I no longer remember which ones are mine.
I reach out for the impossible dream
but Alonso Quijano sighs beside me
and offers instead just one more story.
I rode. Stars burned in my eyes
while thoughts swirled half-formed
and muddled, but gorgeous
like Monet in a duel with Van Gogh.
Nothing was impossible.
And then. Words.
Words burrowed deep into my brain
and sliced their way under my skin.
My beautiful windmill became a giant.
Or was it the other way around?
The truth of his face has been lost.
My eyes burned dim and then out.
My body became a pincushion full of words,
I no longer remember which ones are mine.
I reach out for the impossible dream
but Alonso Quijano sighs beside me
and offers instead just one more story.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara