What are you thinking now?
I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.
—Jack Spicer
like life doesn’t?
only it does. he
positions him-
self at the cor-
ner of his bed,
the one corner
where the mat-
tress sinks into
the drastically
devastated box
springs. a day
does not pass
without me
thinking at
least one time
about my apart-
ment’s pre-
vious tenants:
those former-
ly most fam-
liar with this
room (of its
history, its de-
tailed structure,
the tales that
lie within the
slightly en-
larged coffin-
like/ -shaped
space of this
one-room home,
where many a
a dull story —
and perhaps a hand-
ful or two more
colorful stories —
persist). history.
alongside my
story. a safe
haven. a prison.
a hideout of in-
troverts and soc-
ially anxious ex-
troverts dying
for the comp-
any of a friend,
yet resigned to
the obvious: that
those folks are
long gone. which
leads to endless
hours puzzling
over why. want-
ing to believe that
suddenly, any mo-
ment now, they’ll
be back, maybe all
at once, as if arriving
at one of the many par-
ties you used to throw
just to prove that you
existed, but then
understanding
that now is now
and that then was
then, and so you
get over it,
you get better,
you begin to
really get it;
puzzlement
understanding,
getting better,
definitely not
understanding,
getting bitter,
understanding
better (not a
eureka! moment
for certain), def-
initely not under-
standing, etc.
muddling con-
cepts like loyalty
and commitment
zipping for light
years around in
your head. what
comfort is famili-
arity or domesticity
when just as you
finally begin to
believe in their
existence, they
are ripped away
from you by the
pickpocketer of
souls? now, at
my brokest, now
that I’m most-
ly broken, a
fucked-up for-
mer king who
just wants to call
a few of his courtiers,
who wants a desperate
word with the
jester, wants to
see and know that
his family, the in-
habitants of his
castle (his prison?)
are smiling with re-
cognition and out-
reached hands for
that electrically in-
timate touch of the
handshake. where
one’s hand meets
with the zinging grip
of another’s, in a
union that isn’t
yours. and will never
be. and the same goes
for the dream of being
tugged into a double
kiss, once upon each
blushing cheek; or
worse, the night-
of the firecrackers,
kisses that seem
giddily eternal as
they fall with sloppy
clarity upon the lips
and burn with the
intimacy of a child
suckling. where is
wisdom cash and
what can such
currency even
afford? must it
be pressed and
cut, then bound
as neatly as those
shelved manuscripts
gathering dust on the
bloated bookshelf
of any office, each
page having been
delivered verbatim
by nobodies lying
flat upon couches
to sleepy doc-
tors who act as
co-authors: collab-
orateurs with each
lying or sitting, slouch-
ing or erect body
with its head propped
upon a pillow, or
is at other times holding
it down with their hands
in some kind of int-
imate sorrow in
a stance that is
aimed either at
comfortable or
excruciatingly
uncomfortable;
peopled furniture
in countless over-
ly warm rooms
that dim an en-
tire continent. there
is, rather, a large por-
tion — the majority, let
us surmise — of the
human population,
who were each molded
in such a way that is
ideal for such collab-
orative work, either
to sit behind an
often oversized
wooden desk or
table built to
utilize the varied
alternative blocks
of furniture upon
which they are
each directed to
sit, or to lie. to sit
and to lie. com-
promise may very
well be earned,
during these hab-
itual efforts. and
when they are,
the tome con-
structed is quite
often as much
revelation as
it is anomaly. is
it that some are
born knowing...
who they are? and
if so, where or how
does this intuition
mutate, then thrive,
when sideswiped
by the glorious age
of self. this perpet-
uation is probably not
even apocalyptic. in
which case I am
missing something
crucial. maybe we
all are. how one
refuses to give
up seems to be-
come something
eternal. but. I
must believe and
advocate for those
who are happier and
make their optimistic
quest far more than
a small eternity of
delusion. they
do, however,
tend to die
in tragedy.
in most cases,
almost always,
no matter what.
what single word
could save your world
now? could save mine?
my connections, the
ones which were every-
thing to me, were real.
and yet just as suddenly
(and in tandem) were
flimsy, unreal. what
is this called? why
did they do that!? why
did they disappear
en masse at such
a critical moment?
I have no time to
dissect delusion.
one day there is
a world living,
breathing, engag-
ing and zigzagging
around you (dur-
ing which, take
time for gratitude,
I would advise),
and the next....
all of us are de-
clared dead.
to me. a clear
intention on the
part of the already
dead? what are
those who remain
to do with this? The
rumor persists that
they’re all very much
alive, thank you. and
they do not un-
derstand or care
what a few words
uttered or a horror
acted out as if the
world is just an opera
might do for anyone,
for me. it’s not exactly
the butterfly effect when
the eradication of a
a half-life or so of
fully lived engage-
ment blows up, right
before one’s eyes.
am I just as guilty?
is a cry for help
the same thing as
the act of pulling
slightly away? To
fail to see a single one
of these friends (I see no
other word for it: friends)
materialize, to watch as
each loved one disappears
synchronously at the front
edge of the most excruc-
iating period of one’s ex-
istence (a period, like ex-
istence, that can last a day,
a year, a decade, etc.), of
one’s life.... perhaps the
duration depends propor-
tionally upon the loss of
the cacophony, which, or
was, in all senses, the ob-
jective. wasn’t it? but
this... this has been my life.
I had a beautiful family, one
that was mutually agreed-
upon, tacitly or not. and
now it is gone. which of us
fools, me or my prodigal
family, still exists? I reach
toward an answer to each
day, but remain shrouded
in the silence that is left
behind, while desperately
trying to remember that it
once existed, just as I once
did, so as to not completely
deny myself of that reality.
For better or worse, I oc-
casionally become mot-
ivated to repeat this cycle,
to do it all again, to del-
usionally and deliberately
construct a new family,
just like the one I collab-
oratively built years ago,
forging siblings and part-
ners, to make my own
tiny country, a domicile
all my own. like the one
that lost the last war.
a war hatched for some
unspecified reason. that
is now only an erasure on
a map which I keep study-
ing. I moved through the
delusions with great con-
tentment and much hap-
piness; time had meaning,
then. so of course I will re-
ignite this quest. to what
end? I do not know any-
thing except this: engage-
ment is not delusion? I
hold each moment
the delusion was real.
they are inescapable,
unerasable, it turns out.
I will open different doors
as I move forward. some-
thing is missing. terribly.
rather than ask how to find
it, I look to you and ask: how
might you go about forging
a reality out of a delusion?
and why do I still believe,
my friend? my friend. yes.
because logic does not
prevail in such matters.
I do believe that the
delusion is real. I can
ask why, or for your take,
until, as they say, the cows
come home; until I am
blue in the face (both
inside and out). and so
I do. who would know
better than you?
so I persist. I ex-
ist. if but only so that
I might as well make
it my own, this
blessed delusion.
