Page 138

By Jack Joseph Smith

in an innocent call to beckon me. Sin was so sweet. Maybe a touch for me. Run home and tell the world. I don't care. Gone now is the softness, and I still haven't been all the way. The lingering is such a passive hurt. Over there the grass is bending; it waits for me to roll upon. Over there is a glimpse of the sun; cover your ears and run. Through the early song of birds waking. I can't hear them; I'm on my way. There was the moon. Light is causing it to leave me. It is my solice, when I am walking to the dark side. Where have I not danced in black. I will do a turn. An ovation please. I will thank you with my black gloves. A long silk scarf. White as a swan, to curtsy to. A suede jacket done in the deep est blue, with a collar black to show you, that it is the opposite of me. My jeans are frayed; Father Lonergan knows me as a dying man of the cloth. But fancy are my black shoes. I need them for my walking. I take my hands away from my ears and scream to you. Out there, I wish for you O mountains to never lose your green. Kennedy forest is moving like it used to. In the wind. In the wanting wind. The calm breeze still touches my hair in a way that makes my cheeks laugh. The air is packed with love, and I will take it with me. My head is tight, so I will turn again and again and again. Into dust, spinning up to where the wind is still as the summer when it stops, and waits for you to watch. This time, nothing will be in my dreams. The sky will embrace me with the music I have been waiting for. Or will I knock love to its knees? My mother is so sad about me, and she dosen't know why. My blood is running cold, when I am rambling through my barren desires. But my mind pretends, that it is shouting with heat. My dreams, my dreams. The rich girl, she is so pretty. Her passion is sincere. She has warmed me so on Friday nights. Her sweater soft and her face light with her childrens joy. They all pretend to never know. She is strong to still have love within her. I know the cry of a woman. For

Original Scan

Page 138

AI Interpretation

GPT

On the ridge the narrator slips into a lush self-address about black clothes, moonlight, green mountains, his grieving mother, and the rich girl who still warms him, trying to carry the morning air and love through his barren desires.

The voice becomes theatrical here, almost costumed, as if black gloves and scarf could give shape to inner ruin. Yet the tenderness toward the mountains, the mother, and the rich girl keeps breaking through the pose, which makes the lyricism feel wounded rather than merely decorative.

Claude

The reverie costumes itself: he stages a theatrical bow to 'the dark side' in 'black gloves,' a swan-white scarf, and a suede jacket in 'the deep est blue' whose black collar is 'the opposite of me,' casting himself as 'a dying man of the cloth' that Father Lonergan recognizes. The pose keeps cracking open into genuine feeling - a plea that the mountains 'never lose your green,' the calm breeze that 'makes my cheeks laugh,' a dizzy spin 'into dust' - and lands on raw confession: blood 'running cold' through 'barren desires,' the rich girl who 'has warmed me so on Friday nights,' and a mother 'so sad about me, and she dosen't know why.'