for
Jack Collom as he is dying, July 1, 2017
I
have this body I am this body I have
this
body I am this body I have this body
I
am this body I have this body I am
this
body I have this mind I am this body
I
have this mind I am this body I have this
body
I am this body I have this body
I
am this mind.
I know that's not the true story but
that's what it felt like. Money is an idea. For instance, the little monster
that could. There is a sense of victory over pending doom about almost missing
the bus. Someone says "social contract." Windmills still to to the
south. Feed the monsters in the closet and maybe they'll stay there. Then again
maybe they'll just up and march on Washington anyway. The past is always
growing. Doesn't nostalgia tickle, just a bit?
Memory is a cannibal, always hungry. The
opposite side of the planet—that's a game
we can always play. The true story
is that the voices would just tell me to
shut the fuck up most of the time.
There is no pretty ending. The 21st
century and all that—
all that glitters. Excuse me, this is an
excuse. I have tried
to be brutally honest yet often I've only
been brutally vague.
There's a way to fix that, I'm sure. A
scratch on the skin itches.
Forgotten grief nonetheless persists. Tall
grass waves in wind like waves
in the ocean almost, but not the way the
ocean is permission
to sit and do nothing.
Nothing
but wave.
