8/17/2019 Idling

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8/17/2019 Idling

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In some half-forgotten corner, T e ever-glow of an aftermarket LCD TVGlistens with the sun rays of gray-scaledreruns of some half-forgotten sixties sitcom.

And it isherethat we choke on this silence.is silence which we try to sanctify by beginning our sentences with “God willing.“is silence which we try to stuff with gossip and talk about the weather.is silence which we try to chuckle away by half-heartedly joining in with the audience laughter.

And it isherethat he stares down the only sky he’ll ever see again,an opaque, off -white piece of dry-wall stretched taut

onto which he projectsthe gravely, coal-tarred burrows ofa life unseen and unheard,Like water eddying,Rewinding and replayingthe shrinking vinegary blotches ofhis collapsing triumphs,his aching tribulations,

As I wonder,

What can he say? T at he can expound at great length on the psychological drama of a Dostoevsky novel? T at once he wandered through an Eden of Ivy green? T at he donned the the chain-linked armor of a B.A., MFA, D.Lit, & C.V? T at his career opportunities were the ones that knocked indeed?

T at he sailed through the city of Florence? T at he marveled at the ceiling of the Sistine? T at he swam the shores of Algiers? T at he basked in the orid aroma of a snifter of Belgian-monk-brewed beer?

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I ask,because despitethe idle sanctityof my dgeting convictions,Despite the heady books,

And all that shit about the proletariat and bourgeoisie,the catching-up coff ee shop blues with distant friends, And the hours chiseling a soundaround the pitter-patter of a metronome click, And my White Pages of ex-lovers, And the clamorous nights of momentary eternity,climbing up cobwebs of bong smoke, diving down dark oceanic trenches of booze, And the swaggering, bar stool stories which followOf aky one-night stands,and my encyclopaedic knowledgeof obscure punk rock bands,

And how under the cold, smoky bible black sky,I’m shocked with the shivering jittersOf wondering why, God, why can I not just stop thinking about her?

Despite all of this: won’t my room stillreek of the same silence?Now, whose sharp, silver sickle scratches against my shoulder And reminds me thatDeath is real.

So, so real. And that I am buta single drop of rainin a howling & ceaseless storm, And that from the moment I am spit out from that cloud:Ifall only tocease tofall.

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And,I’m torn between whether that isMore reason for achieving,seeing, possessing, caressing, & loving,Or kicking up dust and muttering,

“Fuck it. What’s the point?” And, I wonder whether itsa regal, benevolent God who controls my landing,or if this is all simplyan atomic dice-roll violently crashingfrom the stonehands of chance.

But this is all just idle daydreaming,isn’t it?

Because in front of me I see,clothed in the rags of a sagging, Duck Dynasty t-shirt,His receding hairline like the exposed roots of a dying tree,His leathery skin a clock-carved fossil,His face ushed in a warm mist of morphine, T e crow-feast’d carcass ofa Good man.Held upin the caress of a tired wife, Whom,

with lockjaw eyes, remind each other thatall things fall to Fall’s burden, And what could he sayExcept,“Honey, I love you.”.