Started out as Friday
but became a Monday
and thus the weekend
became confusing. I baked
a flourless cake and wept
over a Sunday dinner
that felt more like Tuesday’s
leftovers, like the whole
leftover menu from the whole
week. Why do we bother naming
the days anyway — it reminds us
we once had schedules and places
to go on specific days.
I used to put on someone else’s
Sunday best, someone else’s
casual Friday wardrobe. Who
that person was I am not sure
I ever knew. Even the language
is missing its marks, drifting
from its targets, not achieving
its objectives. We used to talk
of safety and job security and
professionals and expertise
and those things meant something.
Maybe they will again, on some
future Monday that finally feels like
a Monday, a day on which
to resume our sacred hatred
of routines and dress codes
and learn to walk in lockstep
once again. I cannot wait
to see who it was
who used to wear these clothes.
Monthly Archives: May 2020
Casual Friday
Incident At Price Chopper
He’s standing in the dead middle
of the meat section at Price Chopper
screaming “HOW CAN THERE NOT BE
ANY FUCKING STEAK?”
Someone comes out bearing chicken
from behind the steel clad gates
of the backroom where they cut meat
and stage the cases.
“Hey, you got any steak back there?”
“Steak? No sir. None.”
“How is that fucking even possible?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Both men talking and everyone watching
has a mask on, at least; everybody’s standing
two carts apart. Looks like the last scene
of a spaghetti western right before the last shootout.
The man with no steak turns his back on
the man with no name in a black mask
to start putting out the chicken. Spell’s broken —
it would never happen that way in a movie,
after all; no one would turn their backs
on anyone else, then all would pull
their stoic triggers, just business really, and
someone would fall. That’s the way
it goes. No one would get any steak, of course,
but the steak is beside the point
in those films. What matters there is
the satisfaction of killing, of existential affirmation
through virtual elimination. It’s all
just a reason for the squint, for the stone
shine of focused gaze. For art, not for life —
for now at least; but maybe tomorrow…
“How is that even fucking
possible?” “Sorry, sir.
There’s nothing. No sir, none.”
“I don’t believe you.
Liar.
Fake news.”
Then, gun.
Then, done.
Delicious
How delicious it would be
to have a world that did not require
all this thinking — where instinct
and emotion were enough to carry civilizations
from birth to death — where guns
and brawn were acceptable in the face of
disease — where fear of the unknown
was codified into quick and dirty law —
where the individual could stand supreme
as long as they did not stand out too much
within the ranks — there would only be
a handful of Gods to choose from (if that)
to simplify the view — there could be
cultural differences if they were colorful
and easily adapted to commerce or control —
where those who dared to philosophize
or speculate could be swiftly neutralized
or vaporized — where appropriate addictions
could be nationalized — where the bees
flew in diminished numbers away from us
when we went outdoors — where the oil content
of every river basin was measurable
and extractable — where the sharks
stayed in the movies — where the scent of sex
was routinely worn behind the ears —
where flowers bloomed in the right beds
and only the right beds — where it all went away
at night — where night went away in the daylight —
where daylight was a property — where we all
understood the Rules and nobody balked at them
except to volunteer as a cautionary tale —
where the flags flapped regardless of wind —
where the wind blew regardless of flags —
where thought was good only for counting coin —
where coins looked their best on closed eyes —
where all our eyes could be closed at any time.
Where The Great Work Begins
We were all bone-tired
before this
exaltation of humility
came upon us.
We may have looked
more madcap, more animated
from a distance, but
if you’d looked into
our eyes, you would have seen
years of restless sleep
and no true relaxation,
regardless of what
yoga magazines told us
we’d gained.
Scoff as you want.
Had we been truly mindful,
we would have forsaken
our lifestyles of abandon
decades ago.
Now, we have
deep dreams
in our sleep and they
drive us mad. Now,
we sit at home all day
chafing behind the ears
and in the center of our chests.
Now, we try to see a way forward
back to that manic past
when half of us
walked around pretending
we weren’t waiting
for a crash into hell
and the other half
walked around pretending
this was just the ramp up
to some temple of gold where,
at last, we’d truly
get a chance to rest.
Meanwhile,
nature
(or something like it)
made other plans.
Once upon a time,
before this real exhaustion
set in, we were all bone-tired
but we invented a phrase
to cover it up: “and they lived happily
ever after.” Something
to which we aspired. Something
that kept these dreams at bay.
A phrase where every word
now needs to be redefined.
Get some rest.
This is where
our Great Work begins.
Not A Dusk
To imagine our worlds
as settled in some aspects,
to understand
that some people dear to us
are no doubt now part of our pasts,
that while we may correspond
we will never be in each others’
physical presence again,
yet still we shall continue
to speak to
and share in each other
in all other possible ways,
that we may even maintain love
and hate and care
at a long distance for the rest of
our shared lives
and never breathe
the same air again:
whether we sorrow
or rejoice in this,
the moment
we come to hold it
as a deep truth
and accept it
is not a dusk,
but a dawn.
Dark Matter 