Monday, May 11, 2009

Journal 11 - November Love

November is the saddest month, breeding glum gifts
out of the dead only to return them for nothing worse.
hope is like bypass surgery. I've bypassed many
opportunities and forays into a world where dreams
are apprehended by the divine, where the first
syllable of the sentence is a simple introduction to an
elegant development of grace and deliverance. Each night
the crickets stroke their spiky angled legs for my
aggravated soul. Moths can be interesting in their
cultured black/white camouflage. Very modern with
their simple adaptability. How quaint. Where is the
nearest Science journal to assuage my forlorn fears?
It's all good since it's all neither good nor bad
but just left to matter. Energy was the darling of
our forefathers. Matter was quite socially predictable –
Haeckel (not Hegel) danced the nature dance and spun
great tunes of philosophical blankets in the cold. I
remember the day my teeth shivered from the point of
the gun thrust in my young face in the convenience
store at night – Haeckel made it all better. Hope is
a worn out pair of blue jeans with little holes forming
around the knees and splayed at the bottom where
the heel of my boots grinds it into threads. Jeans
can be patched or replaced. A river still runs through
it – runs through the eroded yards of fun filled children's
dreams – runs through the city taking in bird-levelled
aircraft – runs through the water-carved canyons of
the water-stricken west – runs through country and
19th century wedding feasts and dances – runs
through our largest continent giving up its water to
overrun our banks where experienced natives smile
at their welcomed preparation – runs through the
songs and the fathers and sons and mothers and
daughters – the river runs through heaven and hell
absorbing everything in between, vomiting random
bits of swollen flesh. Love is hard like living with
rat extermination. The blood and fur isn't easy. Love is
hard like fat bellies that so want to be flat but without
the discipline and work. The ends – not the means.


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