i keep describing things as being
back on the menu
i seem to be obsessed with this idea
that things that had been unavailable
are around again
arrival is a singularity
the thing that is back on the menu
is my retention of it
of the call
and the rejection of the call
even though someone else having
experienced just this is impossible,
it’s hard to keep this knowledge
at the foreground of every moment
and every moment is only remembered
as a way to segment the whole
so memories are only photographs
but don’t let the fact that they’re not real
make them appear any less impressive
see, these things can be useful.
so GO with it. be afraid but don’t write about it so much.
let yourself see it in the exhausted trees,
who cannot enjoy the moment
and know the end is coming soon …
they’re over the hump, cresting the solstice, etc.
they’d like some more water – maybe?
but their green has lots and lots of food
how thick are those trunks really
the long version:
the things that happen in stairwells,
hearing music from a loft.
that party where EC found that money
and bought those winterboots.
the stairwells at the music building
each with their own pot smoking landing
all those times looking up
so many doors to open
it’s not a mature state of being. it’s very fearful,
the first few days after the molt. you can go back
in time for these. remember the passion which with you
would have defended your fresh skin at twenty
in basements, now a tall proud parent in basements no more
another ramble to pass the time
another kiss without flesh
another tori amos record through the floorboards
another lost ballot box
another envious complaint
it’s what you do when the world is sleeping that matters
let them read about it in the morning papers
the alienated wonder of what one is to do
when the clichés fit
and the profundity does not suffice
enter:
another chewed up pencil
another five minute nap in an office chair
another borrowed fax another fake hello
another greeting with stained teeth
another meeting more slides and more
each promising it it will be the immovable object
the thought is fixed and becomes truth
sadly this is not the case
young golf shirted white men
laugh and
the tweed jacket types (patches and all)
rub their chins as their girlfriends give any observers a
show with a worried look and an arm grab
as usual
it all hinges on the turnout
and it’s only late evening here
but there’s always a spin from the other side
and a drunk yelling
always makes sense
to the ears of the room
it’s gonna be a close one
it’s going to take a while to figure out what we’ve said
what did we expect?
when we’ve fed the projections
and the polls
gone to the booths split
spilt
letting another typo decide the fate of the nation
and i’ve left myself these dreams
and I waste one a night
it’s sweet background music for wasted plans
but they’ve taken a backseat
to dented cans
staring at me from the kitchen counter
what i’ve allowed myself
only what is required
they’re different versions
of different thoughts
the live one backspaced over
fixed
there’s always one more voice than I counted on
it’s nothing more than fiction
dying before the polls close
the question of leadership
hangs in the air with
all of the openings and closings
who knows anymore
anyway
two young men by a dying man’s bed
keeping him breathing until his vote counts
it’s gonna be a close one
Sunshine and Wind 