my friend plato has a ghost in his house.
one morning as plato was preparing his notes for a day of oration
his morning candle flickered
then extinguished.
calmy he reached over his notes to relight the flame.
he flicked his cigarette lighter and moved his hand torward the wick
but the flame relit itself with a menacing precision.
a sense of urgency overcame plato that almost brought him to his knees.
half standing, his papers enguled by the morning candlelight,
he wrote without pause ..
"don't mess with me, don't you know what you're in for,
hear my call for there is nought to fear
I stand with the old man who shouts
you down... I only want to play you know"
later that afternoon plato spoke of politics
and his vision for a just society.
the gathering ears lapped up his words like a cat does cream.
a ragged old pawn broker cut the silence by
leaping to his feet (with a menacing precision) shouting
"speak of the morning candle"
plato was almost brought to his knees for a second time that day.
he attempted to continue his oration
but was burdened by reality
so he shed his notes and began to speak from experience.
he spoke of the candle, automatic writing and serendipity.
he fumbled at times through interpretation.
the ears jeered, turned and left.
as plato picked up his notes
he caught the eye of the old ragged pawnbroker,
who apart from a young girl by his side were the only people remaining.
"why did you want me to speak of the morning candle"
plato asked the ragged old pawn broker.
the little girl smiled and said
well you were being boring again
and anyway ..... I just wanted to play.
