Thursday, August 25, 2011

The Sickness Manifesto (Can Take Years To Finish)

Is it me or are we all prone to deity? I missed the old dog at 4 a.m., traipsing along between round hay bales, the moon listing in its bower of mist. The tractor ruts kept our feet dry, relatively. The test is you can make a god of anything except God. Like this: I prayed for contact and you made contact and so now what.

One achieves a heightened state by killing mosquitoes without guilt. A perky catbird sang on the satellite dish. The bear paused lazily a few feet past the rotting pumpkins as if to indicate choice. One might be money, another well-known poetry. The sickness manifesto can take years to finish.

Two nights running, such sweet dreams! We huddled in the truck bed, smiling and kissing, while a city burned beyond the highway's edge. Ruddy light inside the stove, a mind considered a hymnal. Your tradition, my stubborn practice. Is it time yet for waking up?

The guilty pause. He wrote there was no such thing as a stranger. We make up our mind for the "whole wide world." Memory insists that it knows something we don't, that's why it's so hard to let go of. I waited for you all night outside the cave and at dawn realized that you were never coming back but still sat there till noon letting hope get good and gamey.

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