Lowering Proust

before me,

I hear the autumn rain rise,

beat around the bush,

then straight on through the shrubs,

'til suddenly ceasing

in an aftermath of drips & drops,

irregularly pleasant

to an avant-garde ear,

discerning György Ligeti's Poème Symphonique

for 100 Metronomes

out of the rhythms,

my second mug of strong, black

straightening out any dilly-dally doubts;

local livabilities slotting in

like perfect mechanics,

glazed with comfortable contempt

for all poor excuses I encounter every day,

filling my case of disgust to the brim;

nitwits and dopes coughing & snoring

through endless uselessness,

stiff in everlasting ignorance;

puffing skinbags

stuffed with meat and formidable filth

At night,

when Proust becomes a plowman;

his sentences deep furrows

disappearing

out into the dark;

reminiscences and hidden sounds

draw close like a gang of wolves

'round a Canadian camp fire;

a heavy sense of sentience filing past

in the guise of three musketeering

ball lightnings

across the coniferous perpetuality

of the North,

deep into the ancient halls

of my mind;

the unconscious flickering