It’s a simple enough task, explaining the truth, once you’ve got it. Not to the molepeople who think you’re the molepeople—all y’all fine thousands, stiff and suffering not one lick from your blindness.
All pain and suffering (life is) Lazare said (for me). He thought I should know, in case I might be enjoying myself. “Get out from behind the pillow; it gets worse!” And it does, but no terror fits the sinking in your chest: Kant, midlife, lecturing for tips—how philosophy has suffered from the lack of tips. The panhandlers in the park might know, or some shy rescue dog eating the park’s leavings wholesale and with ravenous lockjaw.
My friend, the clever one, with the child’s body and the woman’s hips—crooked toes on her feet from beating the souls within the tar and having each night something new to do—black streaks from eyes to chin from her office job, crying toner. We are moving this wreckage forward for history. In time these pages will be filled with whatever I can dig up—please be not too harsh with the frame—do what you will with the content.
No comments:
Post a Comment