Saturday, April 30, 2016

The Rest of Us Have Suffered In Translation

Does the sea get angry? The night when it's here gives no sign of leaving and yet. Withered forsythia, open garbage bags, and roads I won't walk in a thousand times a thousand years.

The point in a sense is space but not too much space. The sentence occupies time and space, as do words, yet the meaning to which they collectively point, apparently, does not. When in Rome.

When I was in Rome it was hot and I at a stale cheese sandwich and decided abruptly to leave for Ireland. Patting invisible dogs while walking alone pretty much sums it up. In the distance cows graze and yet another farm struggles to define itself in a more or less farmless world.

Outside a little after 3 a.m. to pee and maybe walk to the river but it's cold and no stars. Faced with a noose one turns to peer instead into shadows which at least imply light. Everybody likes the surface, and everybody knows it.

Washed down with coffee, followed by cigarettes, and an old man bumming one, easy enough to do despite no shared language. Turn the other cheek hasn't worked so well but what can you do. Lilies like the rest of us have suffered in translation.

Oh the many aches in my back and gut, the teeth slowly rotting and slipping, and a sweet dream at night of beds of grass on which to sleep. Broken wagon wheels, displaced bee hives and thou. Nobody asked for this and yet here it is, precisely.

More tea, just to be clear. You and me, not so much.

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