What we do we do
we do we do
this regeneration
it ain’t for the weak boned
this revision, life, revisited
the spring rain drains
into the sump pit and thus
beginning again
the water keeps running
and so do I
and so do I
and so do I
I do I do I do
The thing about living in a fascist state is, you don’t necessarily wake up every day thinking “I live in a fascist state.” Most days you wake up and go through your daily routines; you listen to music on the radio; you go to the movies; you complain about the price of gas; you look forward to big celebrations; if you have a job, you go; if you can afford it, you plan vacations; you check the weather report for the chance of rain or snow; you engage in whatever level usage of social media you’ve become accustomed to; you play games on your phone; you watch streaming TV channels; you listen to your spouse tell you about their day; you tell your spouse about your day; you make plans for the weekend, if you don’t work weekends; you listen to your spouse cry because one her clients died in face down in the street when he had a warm bed but that’s not where the drugs were; you take note of the social outrage at one the death of a homeless woman in a city that has criminalized being human and living outside out of fear and needing to blame someone for everything; you look to make sure the front door is locked between you and the random house search you know is coming because the leadership in the city is complicit; you think about getting drunk, but know it won’t solve anything; you feed the dogs; you order a pizza and make sure to tip the driver; you know watching the State of the Union won’t do anything but keep you up all night and decide read multiple breakdowns the following morning over black coffee, at which point it occurs, once again, that you live in a fascist state.
We’re in the wet season, what is probably a fool’s spring, and the snow and ice have melted. The skunks have started mating and the peeps, I am told, are peeping in the Olmstead Parks.
I can’t prove it, but I think I am saved by love and by eating an apple a day and by a spiritual subroutine that operates in the deep programming of my mind. It’s been decades, but I have been, since I became aware, been working at making subtle changes to the key operating system, digging out errata programming and faulty subroutines. An apple a day and a perpetual search for poetry, neither of which disappoints me, will be what saves this machine. As the body wears out I replace parts with titanium and with words and someday all that will remain is a beating heart that bleeds language and whatever spare metal parts there are. And then someday, the words will erode away, get carried on the wind and they will find new hearts. And then the reconfiguration will be complete.
The year of the Fire Horse comes ‘round once every 60 years, or so says the internet, which has gone from a depository of all information to a badly organized big box store where the search agents are underpaid and unhelpful and the expiration dates are … flexible. The fireworks at midnight disturbed a neither deep nor restful sleep. I wish I could blame current events but I find that the world intrudes on my interior geography the way water soaks into river rocks: immersed long enough, some water does seep in through the pores. But I learned a long time ago that I do not carry the entire weight of the world. My share is only what seeps in, and what I allow to remain.
I’m too busy looking forward to look down. I only wish that this slight fever had accompanying dreams.
A fresh pot of coffee on the stove,
an apple, a pipe, and a shower
and the world moves on
Blinded By the Light // this life informed by a Manfred Mann song / a guitar and keyboard riff that beats like a heart that never stops // I do not stop / I do not stop // until someday it will all stop
the songs are right // this is just one big space ship and we / and we / are float// ing
—
my 20’s were the death cult years
I’ve gone a little crazy a few times,
to the great disappointment of people
surprised they never saw it coming
and it was in my 20’s I learned
most people are fine sharing their sorrows
but it doesn’t leave any room in them
to share someone else’s
