Читать книгу The Skin of Meaning - Keith Flynn - Страница 22

for John Groover

It’s easy to get the yips.

Any small ration of anxiety

will set the hands a-flutter.

Forget the hypnosis and

meditation techniques,

focus instead on the hole,

that Freudian objective,

staring with its bad eye,

out of a perfectly manicured

jigsaw puzzle of jumbled

green elements, designed

to humble every human

who stares intently into it.

In this drama, light reverses

itself and doubt is born.

The first sob does not grate,

but makes all intoxication rise,

doom-eager, as the eagles

of blackness band and lower

their fierce, unyielding beaks.

This is the path to creation,

the dark dive, the arrow

of the mind that screams

for oblivion, even as the

handle in your hands turns

into a crossbow that cannot

find its tricky target among

the endless surprises of sand

and water and hungry stalks

of untrammeled grass. First

thing to go are the eyes and

then the distance shimmies

and one imagines whole towns

sawed apart by the tornado’s

tip, as the finger of God

touched down and the white

ball becomes an iris, a star,

a twinkle in the drain that

might guide this sparkle

of luck, this forty foot

birdie putt, this clown mouth

hoping to regain its

clumsy, clueless tooth,

laughing its black one-liners

as the dimpled orb lips

round its warm pocket

and winnows happily out.