How Eloquent Our Intentions
Beneath it all, a fear of beetles, the tiger under the tarpaulin. Tricked out, our monologues manage to skim the surface (two heads and a Heart of Gold). Wally once said ďEvery man lives with an inventory of unsolved problemsĒ, and I said who said that and he said me didnít you recognize my voice?
Which is to say that cigarettes arenít killing you, itís the ancient radiation. Everything is eager. We may suspend the animation of mice, and still drag our hearts behind us on a travois. Two million years of fathering at fifteen, and an old pope shrugs himself into mid-sized vestments. Which is to say, we push our hope before us in a barrow.
There are more clouds now, there is more moisture. Nothing is dumb, not even the animals. They are our breakfast, take shape in the sky. Men almost never get pushed in the subway. Women give birth without blood. Nothing trumps the rictus of joy or our love of old stories, like sweet buns hot from the oven or dogs twitching in sleep.
Which is to say, we arenít what we do: The Sioux lease casinos, the French build reactors. My brother kills crabgrass with oceans of poison. I love this language, this chalk on the wall. Somewhere, a quorum is forming. Meanwhile, thereís a bird in the back yard eating insects off a potted plant, and another shaking off late snow.
Vox populi embraces the effable. Someone runs for Congress with a hidden mistress. A thousand cats stretch out in a thousand laundry baskets. A man throws himself in the path of the El. True Love, he gasps to the EMT.
(Published in The Journal, Winter 2008)