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Raymond Soulard, Jr. New Songs (for Kassandra) - The ...

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45<br />

<strong>Raymond</strong> <strong>Soulard</strong>, <strong>Jr</strong>.<br />

Things Change (Six Thresholds)<br />

[a new fixtion]<br />

Morning. Resurrection. <strong>The</strong> least thought matters. Morning. Desire. Slim lashes of<br />

flame.<br />

Possibilities.<br />

A stream of mirrors where colors bounce playful, savage, outlaws in shift &<br />

movement, two break into five, five into a hundred, two, a few, shifting, moving, things<br />

change, things, things change, change, change—<br />

& night trips into today, unfractured by light, unsanctioned in this wild free run,<br />

night frail & fabulous, the least thought matters, the pen scratches, buzzing the paper,<br />

marauding, etching it <strong>for</strong>ever, scarring its blankness, with truth, with choice, with magick,<br />

with gleam, one hand holds another, touch bloods now with furious life—<br />

a note diminishing always, a rock, a flame, no time—<br />

She looks at me & smiles. Hands me a peach-colored crayon<br />

“Try” she says<br />

“Me?”<br />

“Yes”<br />

“If you wear the pink gown & red bonnet”<br />

“And you wear the blue suit & yellow hat?”<br />

I nod.<br />

I take her hand, palm-side up, & trace a diminishing circle from palm’s edge to its<br />

center. Tickled, she giggles.<br />

<strong>The</strong> least thought matters, a ton & a feather, the gown & the suit dancing, the<br />

morning & night, the vase of poppies, spring in the loins, summer in the belly, winter in<br />

one’s dreams, autumn in one’s heart—<br />

Next threshold, what it might be, heavy glass tank, water filled but depths<br />

unrevealing, black glass, black water, a shrug each <strong>for</strong> what when why.<br />

What may come, I kiss her lips. She is stay, she is grounding, direction & fresh air, I<br />

kiss her lips <strong>for</strong> these things & their many kin.<br />

I hand her back her crayon & she nods; keeps the thick swirl on her palm tho; later<br />

carefully incorporates its wax substance into a new picture.<br />

What may come, we sit here tonight, close, clear, bells, high, sit together while most<br />

people & events pass us unminding, each gurgling with the cream of self-obsession throathigh—we<br />

sit here & what passes perhaps touches too, down in the roots, down in the<br />

dreams.<br />

<strong>The</strong> Cenacle | 59 | October 2006

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