Dig

Like his father before him (but not like me),
The archeologist digs for a bitter history
And lets it scab
Over skin and bread and spirits,
All broken for the sake of talk.
The slightest filament sparking for a moment
When he notices that there are never
Just two people
Lying together in a bed--
Between their bodies and beneath their weight
Are all the ones that came before,
And all the ones that didn't.
This absence in the crowd isn't seen
So much as it is felt,
Passing quietly among the breathing,
Only made noticeable
When you want to fill it:
The intimate revenge of replacement.

Arguing abortion to avoid the things that matter,
With more ceremony than the common funeral
(a little grim, with thicker veils)--
I don't want rhetoric;
I want something to drink.
We can afford our separate discourses,
And let politics and ink
Shove themselves
Underneath our fingernails.
Childhoods cleaned and pressed,
Rehung on wire hangers,
Still a little damp,
Just slightly more faded than the day before,
When a mere boy imitating the powerful
With the cruelty of youth
Comes full circle,
Returning with determination,
Ordering another round,
Building a disposable country,
Choosing a dull phrase, but an apt one
To name a subculture of salmon-catchers.

Reprimands for normalcy
While the irregulars kill compromise
Through little assassinations,
Leaving twisted little starlings
At the bottom of the stair,
But no clear enemy,
No identifiable body for bullets and blame.
As much a crime
As Yeats rewriting himself as Oisin,
Wanting more than acquiescence,
Craving the only woman like a drug:
Her toxicity soothed his nightmares
But left him empty
With nothing to fight but the waves
When nothing else would fight back,
When the body is too unreliable
To feel any temperature
Anywhere except the feet:
He could always count on them
To be cold.

Thursday Track

Out of the goodness of my wallet and the guilt of my heart. It was only through talking politics and the physics of ice cream (versus those of frozen yogurt) with one of the crazies on the train did I realize that I was one of them. Shark Week antics: what would Sylvia think? My planner is filled with observations and second thoughts instead of appointments and dinner plans; I don't need to keep a diary. Stephen is of the garden variety, but still prefers mice to meal worms (a most discerning palate for a snake). Through certain windows, light from a single street lamp shines linear and softly crosses, much like how it looks through the momentary blur of tears before the blink. As a people, we tend to undervalue the wrists...all major joints, for that matter. Blonde flops masquerading as bangs deserve to be regarded with nothing more than suspicion. Uneven blinds fixed by concentration. Alice in Wonderland. Umbrellas. Vultures. Fourth of July. National Geographic. Wrapping paper. Flannel blankets. Styrofoam. Microwaves. The Devil. Kangaroos. Nancy. Puberty. Carpeted stairways. Wax-coated leaves. Libraries like cemeteries. Grandmothers and grass. Fireworks. Fear. Coffee tables. Small pox and theme parks. Regret. Paul McCartney. Turtles. Murals. Show-offs. Curls. Harvey Danger. Jimmy Stewart. Sepia-tone rivers churning up more than just sediment.

A Man Without A Country

If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:

THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
WAS MUSIC

--Kurt Vonnegut
11 November 1922 - 11 April 2007