i was ...


I was not beautiful where I lay... running around in my head, that line, which as it turns out, does not exist, not previously that is to me saying  it

                                         But it puts me in mind of , or reminded me or echoed   ,   rhythm wise  ,

   the one Stephen Dedalus wrote (in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man)

about being weary of where he lay

   and the 'fallen seraphim'

 it's odd, amazing, fascinating, how the echo of a line, one's not read in years, and even decades, might crop up like

 'taking the mickey ' out of one, as it were,   and there it is, echoing in the heart mind or mind heart or rhythm
   and it's connected to how he felt, how he felt about his looks, not being 'beautiful, ' as if one ever were, or had to be , bu t in a world of conjunctions

one's sometimes,   forced as it were to conceive oneself this way, and    'they say' men don't do that, i mean think  of themselves in terms of beauty

 and not beauty

  he was not beautiful where he lay    he lay in the hard stone of the pavement like the young woman yesterday outside of the day before outside of the

metro in Verdun

  and O how she smiled when he gave her some money, for her collection, sitting there she was ,

no more than, say, twenty two? and she was weary, he could see, wary  and weary where she lay,
but her spirit tipped up

  and she smiled too, when she saw the amount , surprised saying Merci, and Thank you her spirit lifted up and he 'good luck'    and on the way he wondered how she'd come to such a pass as to be sitting on her butt, on her ass, sitting on her ass  , outside of the metro station, the young woman
  that in spite of any of that, she rose up,  and smiled thank you  and her spirit would carry her then, two hours

he didn't know about that nor about beauty
                                        with the exception of believing he was not beautiful.

and someone told him that word does not belong to you. you can't use that word. what are you? what's the matter with you, anyhow?

 He tottered on the blank sheet of paper holding his head, high jinks to the high heaven.