mmmmmlvi

Approach the Gorgeous Horizon at Your Peril

     Tell me something good
           —Margaret Atwood

The devil doth foretell the
following series of events.

And to the emergency room
he promptly went, thinking

he was suffering from stroke.
But the beds there make for

pretty rad naps once you get
one.  How do we paint that

singular ray of hope into each
painting, each imagining of a

future that is ours?  Initially, I’d 

say abstractly, or metaphorically.

But then I remember I’m rather
blatant about the distinguished

liquid that sits—and often visibly
disturbed—at midpoint in the

drinking glass on the other side
of the (veritable; yes, abstract

or metaphorical) plate that sits
before me.  Now but half full, 

it  was but erstwhile filled to 

within a sliver of the rim, but 

scarcity of time ago.  It’s not that 

I’m an optimist that I tell you this. 

But I am.  And as if to illustrate,

that liquid that is no longer there

was not taken from that glass 

by evaporation.  No.  It is now

a tiny ocean that resides in the 

pit of my stomach, roiling with

waves and mixed with juices “so 

acidic,” I had an elementary teacher

once proclaim, “that it would burn

a hole into the carpet and the floor 

beneath it.”  It is a nourishment

that within its depths now swim 

what would surely be missing and

now unrecognizable bits that only

minutes ago populated my plate

and surf its magnificent waves

like beach bums on bellyboards,
or, as if with feet planted delicately

upon a slab, balances erect upon 

boards, patiently awaiting the bomb, 

that ultimate epic ride.