Saturday, March 28, 2020

Radios Who Think They Invented Music

Yet was there ever time? So many roads are empty of everything now but echoes and nobody ever gets anywhere anyway. In my mind, Judd Nelson is always walking across that football field at dusk, pumping his fist, briefly not doomed. How tiresome the world becomes when you've stopped believing in magic or God! Between sanding the driveway and fixing the fence, my hands freeze into bluish claws and for two hours the world is one in which I cannot write. How do you tell folks that angels have taught you to fly, errant but vast hops over the pasture to the river, the horses calm beneath you? Something unloving, something that won't trust. Do keep your eye on the chickadees who will miss me when I'm gone. Coffee softens the inevitable blow but can't undo it altogether, yet really, what does? In the old days we studied the sky and read the air, now we're like radios who think they invented music. You turned from me once to remove your shirt and then kept going, through the window over the valley and gone, leaving me to self-soothe by folding and re-folding laundry. A dog gnaws a bone, cancer gnaws your gut, absence knows your soul. Look at us pretending we're one with the whole story! Look at the moon getting drunk in a bar only a handful of people know exists.

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