June 17
The stranger
sitting on the stool beside me has reached that stage of drunk teetering between tipsy and totalled when he feels comfortable enough free enough to turn to me and ask, man, what are you doing here? I say something about unwinding, dislaxing, waiting for I don't know--a friend? a lover? insight? revelation? a reason for living? the last bit left unsaid. I return the recognition, ask. his reasons for being here He quietly holds up his glass, says, supporting my local distillery. He sips. what do you do for fun when you're not here? I sip my drink and think, nothing, but say, I write poetry. The stranger looks at his drink. Aren't you a little old for that? I go for the truth. It's a good deflection tool. Nobody wants to talk about poetry. He smiles, motions to the bartender. Have I read any of your stuff? No. Would I like it? I look at my half-full glass, then his. Maybe. He sips. What's your best poem? The next one. Your worst? The last one. The next one. All of 'em. I dunno. But the unsaid part-- there has to be a next poem, otherwise you've closed up shop, the unravelling has begun. So embrace the endtimes that are nigh that are night when the devil comes to collect your soul. I look at my drink, say, Maybe he already has it. My seatmate looks at me quizzically. I realize he missed the important bit— what was saidquietly, in the interior monologue, the self revelation. I say sorry, a sure sign I have had my fill, time to go. He smiles, wishes me safe travels. On the way out, for the first time I notice the couple at the end of the bar, cute, charming, nothing, no one around them enraptured, absorbed only in each other their whole world their love, their future, in each other's eyes. Been there, done that, I think as the door closes behind me. Anyway-- I have a poem for tomorrow. Maybe two.
this one wonder
this one lie down on grass on grave wonder if life after life as good as life before death wonder if person on other side of grass know she exists this one stare into sun this one walk on all fours jump on furniture life of the cat this one talk as if words make meaning more words, more meaning this one live life according to mother's plan this one stare at moon wonder if moon stare back only at her this one chant spells brew potions catch wild horses this one live this one die this one pray to catch God.
Once,
I knew everything, at least everything I thought I needed to know. where to find food. how to get attention or deflect it. But now, as I read, grow, learn, am I amazed that the only thing i really know is how much I don't know and how much my brain expands with empty space, space to store all the people, places, things I meet, the puzzles, conclusions opinions I create. I know some are just passing through, a direct line from ear to ear, but others stay, settle in, cuddle up with other bits and pieces of remembrances forming new thoughts and feelings, waiting for their moment to shine, be brought into the light again.
assisted living
no, not the warehouses where we stick old people who have used up their utility before they have used up their creativity, their humor, their anger, their smiles and frowns, their care, their love, their allotment of breaths. no, the everyday assistance-- the first responders, of course, the teachers, the nurses, cookers of food, the stockers of shelves, societal cleaners, the people who point you in the right direction, or show you a trick to uncomplicate a small part of life, the people who leave behind a smile that lasts, the ones who make us laugh, the listeners. The only ones not in assisted living are those who think they are self made, deny help they received, claim everyone should lift themselves should admire them for their independence and ability, their lack of understanding of the way the world works.