The World is out of the office,
In Franklin, NC, of all places,
Drinking blood orange Italian cream
Sodas in the Rathskeller, at
Peace now Fall has arrived if not
In the trees yet in the breeze that
Blows down Main St. like a mother’s
Hand wiping a crumb from your chin.
Independence is way overrated. I once thought, Yeah, you come into the world with your mother, at least, but you die alone. Now, I’m not so sure. We pass carrying all of the lives we encounter in our lifetimes in our memories. Those who convey us there going on with their lives.
This seems to be the only true way to know yourself; to know others. We sometimes struggle in the exchange of the self to find, define, re-define who we are as if it, our self, was seeking stability. But, it is like breathing: in and out, start and stop, begin and end. What do we choose to do and what are we doing? Intention, reflex, memory. It’s like breathing.
We divide to rejoin or reassemble, not to destruct or deconstruct, for that is done only to make some other connection or union. And for that we need the other to allow The Idea, The Person, The Impulse, The Creation, to liberate into the world. Sui generiscollapses in on itself, asexual, boring, from nothing to nothing. How else did I come by language, the names of things, the impermanence we take for granted as solid ground? That which was taught us, that which we learned. You, my friend. You. One way or another.
There are means to an end but I
Don’t know them: hard work, fortitude.
Its tough enough to get out of
Bed let alone out of the house.
But I keep looking for that switch
Turns frowns into smiles so bright.
When its found, hope the bulb isn’t
Burned out, could use a little light.
She said “eclectic” tastes and I
Thought, “Sweet!” cinched up my girdle, and
Moved the movie script in my head
Into production. The air was
Autumn-rich, something dead again.
She hauled out a barrel, churning
Like cats in a Maytag, I closed
My eyes, held my breath, dove right in.
Death is an end of possibilities
and a beginning of all fictions
though the living often fear
reveling in this potential.
Good manners trump unabashed ego
save for the occasional syphilitic philosopher
or errant office “careerist”.
The edge doesn’t exist; it bleeds
In torrents as we hover like
Meat in the sandwich subjected
To physics and whims, dolor and
Perfidy, yet our claws, despite
Our gnawing still click clack where the
World stops like bullets popping
And reach back with the slightest hope.