How We Commune

What distance - what are you talking about? At this or that point in the great cycle. Writing is voice and voice is how we commune. Pacing the hayloft to warm up, sleet hissing against the window. Pissing in buckets, lugging them to the forsythia bushes to empty. Slowly the world begins to transform before your eyes, what was drab beginning to gleam and what was stiff and flat undulating like a sea. Old love letters I can still see but no longer read. Poor Mary Surratt, poor David Herold. Paper flowers we labor over, getting the petals just so, then give them away up and down Main Street. Daughters, you know? I suggest leeks and Hubbard Squash for next year's garden and Chrisoula agrees. Sit your ass down on a radiator if you're cold, i.e., adapt. New rosary, same prayers? Sometimes you realize just how big a fucking phony you are, and then you make peace with J.D. Salinger's craziness, because all along that body in the rye was yours. I wake up with Paul Simon in my head, Slip Slidin' Away. I don't know what's next, I never have, it's both a blessing and curse. Toast with peanut butter, hurrying. And so on and so forth, amen.