Flounderings

Mid-November skids into a white-boned sky Frozen fish dream of warm tape water. Every step is a cliff-top for the weakening. Meanwhile, beautiful people wash-up on sandy beaches create more buttery lobster commercials, evening gowns drip like sequined icebergs. The young are headlong as usual and will not stop until they pull us into their dreams, they sew our jester hats with a pitying love - just as we did theirs. It’s impossible to regret anything when the very ground under our feet is begging for more banana skins, more slip-ups - anything to keep us going in a direction identified as forward by the backward. We who still dispense the sweet nothings of glassy-eyes wizards, must be seen as fully clothed and able, ready to function still on the old fictions; though daily, step by step we are coming to resemble the still-life taxidermy of moth-eaten owls.