Evolution of Theory

Sun has to set somewhere.

There?  Big deal.

You just won’t understand my

suffering, as I brought to you another

installment in the what

were you thinking chronicles.

Sunsets on the harbor.

Tense.

Or ignore each other.

Mongoose and goats, for what it’s worth,

oh by the way, lay down together.

As long as the snakes survived the goat-

surviving mongoose as long as the mongoose

cultivated a taste for green garden

variety serpent, it’s easy to understand that goats

were brought to drive out the mongoose that

were brought to drive out the snakes that

were brought to drive out the rats that

had never actually inhabited the island

and weren’t going to, dagnabbit.

It’s different.  Promise.  You just think

you do.  It’s not something

at which you spend that much time

wondering.

The notion that everything passes eventually

eventually passes

it would not fit here to mention.

Where is that wascally wabbit

when you need him?

You spend so much time

wondering about spending so much time

wondering about time that nothing

becomes healthier than staring

down the barrel of a tumbleweed indelicately

situated on a grossly misplaced

lava field.  

To make up is just

to invent, no more, no less, no

reconciliation, no prettification,

but an invention of a peace betwixt

a storm, or if not storm, at the least,

dischord.  Discord.  Dischord would signify

a different key is being played,

the one at play in the key of me,

and the other banging away in the key of I,

with no do, no fa, no re, no so,

no golden drop of sun

but always the long long way to

think you can and think you can

and then you blow a fuse and then you short a circuit

and then you’re not thinking and then

you’re not canning and you won’t get

all Buddhist on me because vengeance is mine,

sayeth the little tao’ster.

Errr, toaster.

Where’s the fun in that? In what?

You might never get an answer, you

and your much improved toaster,

brought back from the dead from life

support.  Well, dead:  clinically dead.

Some lines you miss a hare, some

days you miss the rabbit.

A fire’s cherries ringing have no dearth

of source, of heat, of anger, expired,

and soon, I thought, there won’t be any more

this.  All of that will be gone.  What

will be missed, what won’t?  This

chair, no; this clip, no; this longing, no;

this impulse, not in the least.

There are worse things to see on the drive

from the airport than lava fields, but what

I want to see is you, your face,

your made-up

or not face.

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas