You were one of the twelve
of you doing what you were
doing; promised a part in
a Communist parade, a five
year contract to be who you
were against eleven impostors—
I saw you on South St. on
my thirty-sixth birthday,
you had pigtails, and as you
lied to the barrista about
working at Condom Kingdom
(for seven years), I remembered
Loren Hunt on the floor of
Gleaner’s bathroom on mescaline—
On his daily walk down Fayette Street,
he senses something he’s never sensed
before— space. With everyone cleared out
(into death, probably), he owns the ground
he treads on, and the space he takes up is
his own. That’s his compensation, as an older
man, for the misery and deprivations of the
Great Recession— space. He feels the cosmos,
how vast it is, and as he stands in a short
line at CVS to pick up his prescriptions,
the cosmos has in it something eternal, which
will continue with or without him, or us.
Emptiness is what you make it.
(0) Comments: Post a Comment