He took advantage of her/me.
What is that like in your life?
It could never have happened.
Come with me somewhere.
—John Ashbery
write. or used to be.
what is, though. not
what’s within the con
fines of your selfish
wants, your narrow de
sires, but what works.
wholly. universally.
visible. or otherwise
established by the
senses. only then
might you move to
ward the hypothetical;
and perhaps after that,
you could try to go fur
ther, to breach the fan
tastical, the intangible.
but for now, and at your
age, stick to the ground
you walk upon, can feel,
is physically palpable,
staying grounded is key.
reality is paramount....
the black cartoonish eyes
on the broken green coffee
cup mug (and yes, move
from the general to the
specific: your evolves,
becomes my; yours,
mine; you are now me.
the calendar on the wall,
discolored from being wet,
as it was when it arrived
at your doorstep, arrived,
indeed, at my doorstep,
was placed into my hands
by the courier who weekly
delivers my box of diabetic
food. i have diabetes; was
diagnosed almost exactly
one year ago this week.
these boxes of prepackaged
food are delivered on thurs
days, recently having been
switched from sundays as
they were for nearly a year.
at no charge. they arrive
at no charge to me. but
hang on a minute. is this
the good news, the reality
that i should regurgitate?
of what use is this news,
at present, to me, or to
you? i should concentrate.
no one knows better how
to brighten things up. isn’t
that what this is all about?
no one knows better than
me. so here goes. i should
steer clear of the part about
having no income, the part
that is reliant upon charity
or intervening help. and
most definitely shut up
about the broad circle of
humans that i once knew
so intimately, some of whom,
i suppose, have flown else
where, been gone for years
now, but some are still here
within the confines of the
very same city in which you
sit, alone, relying upon the
kindness of strangers, not
those individuals who, de
spite my most dramatic
or most subtle efforts to
defy, to reverse, this a
bandonment: i haven’t
looked a friend in the
face, not one, have
not been in the same
room, close enough to
feel their breath in over
a year? two? has it
been even longer than
that? so that old ide,
the one about building
the family you want, of
surrounding yourself,
myself, with the a group
of individuals that i can
proudly call my family.
is that the direction this
should be going? is this
what i’m supposed to
scribble about in order to
contemplate, to publicize,
to open, as if a door, so
that this information can
be let go? a door that,
even blown so wide open
that it creates a hole out
of which this is its only
use? as an exit for this
nonsense? never an en
trance. only an exit. but
of what am i ridding my
self? what good is toss
ing out the door such
thoughts as these?
that i believed. that
i had such a family.
that it felt so real
that it existed, after
being the architect
of what i might call
my life, years of being
proud to have such a
thing, only to watch,
helplessly, as every
thing i so selfishly
built, or selflessly,
who’s to say, but
yet to watch it all
completely vanish,
in what was but an
instant, to see the
whole world, my
world, gone, as if
it never even exist
ed, and all before the
reality of this disappear
ance even begins to dawn
on me, before i even can
begin to even attempt to
comprehend how gone it all
was? and is? how dead i
would become all of those
i called important, all who
mattered? is this the real
ity to which i should dedi
cate my time and efforts?
is this the story of stories
that i live to tell? and to
what end? why should i
bother telling and retelling
this? to you? why should
this be the something that
i might explore further,
from which i might learn?
what might i get from
doing this? what might
you get? well, i have an
answer for these questions.
a justification, if you will
(oh, won’t you allow at
least this? i entreat, as
if there’s anyone out
there who might some
day retrieve this, another
message i’ve bottled,
capped, and tossed,
as if into the vast
pacific). oh, yes.
i do have an answer.
is this the stuff, the
whole of which i am
here to convey? is
that, then, my purpose?
no. absolutely not. or
not very often, let’s me
be indelibly clear about
that. not as if there is
anyone who might give
the definitive word on
such matters (much
less offer even the
vaguest of hints as
to whether my com
pass is pointed any
where in the vicinity
of the a proper dir
ection? anyone?
anyone?). what is
reality anyway, but
something tidy and
comforting that, once
understood, or once
the surface of it is even
perceived, what is it but
a thing that then slips
away day after day,
night after night, at
such a pace? so that
the dreams you believed
true, as discerned from
that to which you woke
to find before you, that
home i thought i had,
all of those late-night
conversations you used
to call engagement, the
score of humans to whom
i felt an earned affinity, to
whom i felt what i believed
to be (and wasn’t it?) that
thing we might call empathy,
or at least mine; my family?
they’re all gone. as good as
dead, as the saying goes,
good as that may not, in
reality, be. as you are to
each of them: a figment,
if that. whoa! you might
be thinking (were you an
actuality), this is not what
i wanted to hear. nor is it
what i intended to even say;
what i meant to relay i cannot
even remember. i had no idea
what i was getting myself into,
accepting this. same goes for
me, i’ll add. this was not the
message i set out to write,
not the purpose i spent so
many decades to establish.
to become. so what now?
you’d ask, were you there,
a you, to ask, as you, per
haps, more urgently plan
an escape, unhappy that
you came this way in the
first place, disturbed by
a message as somber as
this, yet feeling a bit char
itable for having stayed
this long, or (one can
hope, one can always
hope) in utmost sin
cerity, curious, em
pathetic (that word
again), perhaps even
willing to help, happy
just to learn, eager
to engage. and,
whether i’m awake
or asleep, i have the
best answer for such
a question as that:
i pick myself up from
the rubble, the misery,
the heartache, i pick
myself up from all of
it, from that mess from
which i shall recover,
and i begin, once again,
i start over, and from scratch.
i don’t look back but briefly,
on moments such as these,
and only then to learn how
better to go about it, to
make this effort the
one that’s real. and
if neither of us move
for an uncomfortable
amount of time, i shall
look at the stranger
standing awkwardly
before me, i look you
directly in the eyes and
i ask: are you in?
