Friday, January 18, 2013

Anti-poetry

There was nothing too unexpected. It is the middle of January, after all. The wind made me miss the sky, and I realized I should have thought the knit sweater through. That is to say I should not have worn a knit sweater. I meant to appreciate the quiet and the desert grass, the earth bulging in sediment peaks and solitude. I mean to feel right. That is to say: not so fucking wrong. And it was lovely, and it was cold. And my failures wouldn't be left at home. I've been trying to figure them out, of course. Do the math, since logic doesn't seem to apply. Please select from the following options: A) You've made mistakes, many of them, imperceptible to yourself, but disastrous in effect B) Accidents, many of them, seemingly a pattern, but not. Just accidents. C) Something the likes of a curse, but not exactly. A design. Whether it was earned, who's to say?
I've been thinking C.  Maybe it's a generous act, sparing myself blame. I'm not responsible for the thoughts, feelings, and actions of other people. Men, I mean. I'm talking about men. But a celestial victim? That's what I am? Each question leads to another, no answer fits. Anyway, the point is, I've been trying to work it out. Then I found myself thinking of nothing but the cold. I walked down the path, following my dog. And what other conclusion could I come to but: What's the use? All that pushing and trying justified as courage and openess.  Look at these pages! Filled with vain effort. Abandon all hope, it's for the better.
 And then there was a jacket. Laying on the ground. And it fit. I'm not quick to say that the universe provides what you need. In fact I reject it. The universe? Benevolent or indifferent? Concious? I just don't know. Besides, too many questions. I'm not apt, obviously, at solving these kind of problems. Faith is slippery in me. I'll just accept it as a reminder that it's winter. The walk home was warmer. I came home and burned my strategy book.

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