Informally wedged between a significant mile of alterations and a limitless power of inventory tallying, my golf ball’s normally-understated carryover floundered briefly–the northern lights had obscured my vision, rendering my lie-finding skills ineffectual on this particular fairway (perhaps I shouldn’t have made a habit of getting in a tight nine after midnight, but free golf is free golf).
At least I got the chance to gawp at the Canada geese flapping over the course, wings beating black against the nuclear waste green, a cacophony outmatched only by their aggressive calls to each other, expressing–what I intuitively deemed to be–awe at the display they rarely see. Though you know, travelers of their caliber get many more opportunities than your typical vertebrates, having inhabited the skies every year of their waking lives.
First draft posted on 9/26/11,
originally entitled #20
Chili leaks all over the seat,
failing to save itself
for a more opportune moment.
At times I’ll see that incontinence
and laugh, comforted
by my own relative regularity.
But when the cowbell strikes 10PM
and you’re losing your marbles
at a steady rate, none of these things
matter anymore. All you can do is
gesture wildly at the skies
with the hope of retrieving
that golden beacon of self-doubt
from the prickly impersonator of human emotion.
He’s been around a long time,
a real long time (if you want to get technical).
His name is inconsequential, for
one must only conjure his essence
to perpetuate his unholy regime.
Obtrusive flickers on sultry skies–
who makes them, and what’s the deal?
A thread can weave a coat,
a person can build a library,
a consciousness can dismantle matter.
So, why the insistent lights?
It feels like a plea for alliance.
Are we meeting up with our cosmic brethren
once and forever? What will it take
to bring our existence to the galactic standard?
Disengage distractions devised to disrupt
the true creative process–fragment output
and label it in as many ways as possible
without waxing trivial.
Choices dissolve ambition and the joy of making.
Then time comes in, the ultimate limiter
of consistency and connectivity.
However minute everything may seem,
there may likely be reasoning
behind even the most pointless roadblocks.
GO TO BED
is what the oppressor tells its obedient tenants.
I really wish I could use my arms.
I always wake upon the wrong side of the floor.