You get weary of the big questions,
the seemingly unanswerable
and the ones you thought
were resolved but resurrect
as doubts out of hard won certainties -
the mind rewinding arguments
to discover a fatal flaw.
And so you look to find a refuge
somewhere in the experiential,
a connection to the hard substance
of things, form fitted out
to house the spectral strands
of a fraying soul and make
thought manifest in the real.
A place of unfolding wonder,
a pebbled stream flecked
with sunlight, tall trees
carrying whispered conversations,
wildflowers bending in a warm
breeze - a place where
there is only what is taken in
and where all else dissolves,
losing the boundary
holding together the very sense
of self - the bright afternoon sun
blazing overhead, the soft, leaf
filtered shadows in prayer,
the Infinite experiencing itself.
The toasters on the blink.
I don't care, I'm leaving you.
I know you like your toast in the morning, but that's a bit extreme.
I've met someone new.
You never mentioned that last night when you were screaming, more, more.
That was goodbye sex.
I think I'll get a brown toaster.
You would put a brown toaster against a red background.
Hardly your concern now.
I designed this kitchen, you are not getting a brown toaster.
Think I'll change the whole decor when you leave.
That is just typical of you. You just can't wait to forget me.
I think it's for the best, cuddles. Maybe make it my man cave.
That's it, I'm dumping the other guy. I am not having you undo all my good work.
Won't he be devastated.
Who cares. Right, we're going shopping today.
Oops, turned out to be the fuse.
Right, I'm going.
Going where, cuddles.
Back to bed, do not disturb me.
Aw, I was thinking some sympathy sex, maybe get back together sex.
Do not disturb me.
Okay cuddles, I'll pop down to the tailors, get fitted out for your sister's wedding. I'm thinking bright orange,
Oh my god, stay there, I'm going with you.
adventure and intrigue parade out of this missive
I am a pirate, a swashbuckler, a pirate queen
Feeling beloved, belonging to the sea,
Fitting into this novel better than I have ever fitted out
My emotions are strong, I am finally respected and admired
I jump back into the book
... [into] the oaken box in which the hunted King was secreted....
Capern essayed to descend...
- Elihu Burritt, Walks in the Black Country (1868)
Suppose a poet-postman, full of good Victorian
Embonpoint, should chance to
Step into this house of hiding – a nook unknown to
Questing Roundhead spies – and think to slip
Unseen into the oubliette fitted out
In Cromwell’s days for a king; suppose this very
Poet – more portly in the midriff than Charles
Escaping from his throne – gets caught
Dead-center in the all-too-narrow trap-door gap.
Alas, for all his wriggling, he’s trapped
Longitudinally between floors. What can a poet,
Ill-versed in such historic lore, do but
Taunt the Muses with his long, many-syllabled
Yelps, unrhyming but in vivid metaphor?
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