So I dislocated my left nostril again
last night in a sneezing fit of epic
not lyric not tragic proportions but even that didn’t help me
when it came to determining the
subject of why I am here,
what the purpose of the purported
hereness was going to be about,
was the issue one of Nietzschean
madness or Kierkegaardian sadness,
how said hereness would interact with
undetermined subject
when subjected to an erratic predicate
and certainly
not to forget the transient verb tense
agreement regarding which most everybody
in the clinic agreed to disagree upon
hearing that the verb was
ablative in nature but the tense was
slothful.
What’s that famous quote by that
famous dead white French guy
who wasn’t completely white, as it
turns out, and probably wasn’t completely
French either, if the DNA is to be
believed, but is most definitely dead?
As we are not speaking, so to speak,
unless you interrupt me
in which case we are speaking and
breaking the rules of narrative
and drama undoing eight centuries of
tradition so let it be categorically stated
that I appreciate your courtesy in
this matter and it’s rapidly becoming
(which should be enough – the process)
apparent that if there is a quote
but a famous dead white French guy et
cetera that would rescue
this section, I am barrenly unaware of
where to find it.
Why this all of a sudden reminds me of
an accident I
obtained as a child is behind me now,
behind me like footprints
in mud I was warned to stay away from
but couldn’t didn’t wouldn’t
should’ve as it turns out that sand is
a better medium for footprint
erasure than dried hardened
concrete-like mud. But enough
about you and more about my
accident. Unless I am speaking to
you,
as a part of my past, with a purpose
beyond the simple nod and smile
elicited by so many blue
responses. Something as supposedly
elementary and prosaic as the addressee
of the addressing address
should not cause such worry warp and
woof, should not entitle
me to feelings of disenfranchisement
and solitude and a certain
Jimmy Dean savoir faire bordering on
taciturnity. You’ll pardon me
I trust if I lean against this wall
for the rest of our time together, my
left foot propped with the
indeterminate goal of either holding up the wall
or working up a good case of
taciturnity (which I will have to look up
as soon as we are through here). I figure it comes down to this: you
sit in the silo the rest of your life,
hoping the sky also does not cave
in, or get back on the bike, determined
this time to fly through the tree
should it be so bold again to suddenly
appear where before no tree
existed. I’ve edited myself enough: be happy I love you so succinctly.
© 2007/12 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights
Reserved
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