Notes on Parkinson's number one
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I can feel myself vibrate.
My hand, hovering over a drawing
Beats a charcoal baton
Directing the slave spiritual
(Though the hand is reluctant)
"Sometimes it makes me want to
"Tremble, tremble, tremble..."
There is yet a spot of stillness
All that is left of the childhood silence,
Of the grand summers,
The smooth passing caress of the air,
Arching, moving like a dream of motion.
Peace seems a stranger now.
Peace, and the stillness of belonging.
All shrunk to a spot now,
A dwindling reflection,
Chewed about the edges.
Something taken by stealth at night,
By the indwelling rodent of disease.
Such things in ignorance
Have provoked the sacrifice of worship.
No crucifixion, but a lesser savior
Chewed by mice.
There are others called "Shaker" here,
Are there not?
I wonder what would be the name
Of the cult of this shaking into stillness,
This falling into stillness,
This crushing by the stillness
That is not Peace.