mmmcclxxviii

The Enabler

this character shows up a lot,
and he just has this air of meta-
phorical importance throughout;
you know he’s going to really
tell us something before all
is said and done. right?

i’m not sure how best to
relay this to you. my approach
is, at the moment, improvisational.
for one thing the summation of that
which i am all too keenly aware is
that i do not want to talk about this
guy. i mean, what am i doing?

there’s this artist-type who lives
on what i suppose you might call
a sort of in-between area, where
selfish cohabits with selfless,
greed overlaps with charity,
materialism with idealism (or
any of the number of things
one might assert that the
opposite of materialism
might be), and so on;
for example, a person
who considers himself
a poet above all else might
earn a living working at an
accounting firm, or at a bank, 

or be a brinks security guard in

charge of an atm machine, or work

at an investment company. let’s not

continue to overstate the obvious,
because what I might be getting 

at, and this is just among many other
things that i may or may not be “getting 

at” here (if one were to spend a lifetime

“getting at” things, what might
one be able to say, and with
any amount of satisfaction
that doesn’t border on
delusion, at the end
of a lifetime, should

it have any heft or girth

at all, that one has actually
and finally gotten?  i mean, 

of all of the whatevers at

which one might be trying 

to get?  what can a person

say has been accomplished?  

can one say with confidence

that one has [yawn]

left the world a 

better place

than it was

when one 

arrived?) –

let’s say, for example,
that, and I believe I’m
getting a bit fuzzy, or
tangential (or perhaps

the word i should use

is redundant?) here

(who can say that

fuzzy, tangential

and redundant 

are not the very

triumvirate at 

which i am 

working so hard

trying to “get” over

here?  “did that twisted

wretch just toss us this

crooked wrench?” it might

be appropriately and perhaps 

even more vituperatively

queried), let’s say 

that i was born 

and raised here,

in this place, and
that i have attempted
to follow the rules as best
as i can, with some intentional
and some unintentional exceptions:

would i not be,

simply put, in

almost any

possible

scenario,

given those

few qualifications,

as a general rule, knowing

what you know only from what

you might have gleaned here,

complicit?  might it not

be automatically said, or,

might it even best be rather

said, by which i mean would it 

not be just as good and nice and

easy and even more correct to 

allow it to go without my

even saying, that i am 

complicit?  that i am, 

therefore, and above 

all else, a hypocrite?

so you can see how
exhausting it might be [is!]
to dwell on this particular
character even if only

within the confines of, 

and again, just to

clarify, this specific 

and ridiculously long
and rambling semi-
narrative that I
claim is also,
intentionally,
intensely
biographical
(and do i thusly

have little or no 

need to even use 

the whole word,

autobiography,

in its entirety?),

while also making

absolutely certain,

repeatedly, continually

(and at this effort

almost unsparingly), 

that this is fiction.

like a mantra, as if sung

by the most obvious of fowl,

whose songs or pecking or chirps

permeate an environment and yet

despite the most herculean sleuthery

are next to impossible to lay a naked

set of eyes upon, do you not hear

our dear narrator pecking away at

his “i am here but i am damned 

sure not here, can you dig?”

there’s no real way
for a hippo to tiptoe away

in a pretty or graceful
or hushed fashion, is 

there? 

i do most earnestly hope that you 

can nevertheless begin to empathize
with me and my dilemma, and that 

you might moreover even find it in 

your heart to forgive the 

fact that what i am 

throwing up here 

(both literally and, 

well, literally)

is such a clunker 

that one might wonder

how it made it out of

the factory door (which,

to be honest, in this case,

is not a very proverbial one,

given that this was more
or less tossed out
from the only 

window that can, 

and only with a tremendous

amount of exertion, might i add, be –
but just barely – pried a tiny bit

ajar way up here on the

executive floor of 

our illustrious company’s

international headquarters).