…the unseasonably warm weather. I’ve been running the air conditioner, set it at 80. It’s finally cooling off enough to open the window. I’m in my office because it is the only place I can escape the assault of TV noise, the ceaseless back-and-forth of reprimands, and sputtering of sentence fragments and microsermons.
The leaves on my mandevillas are turning yellow, and fewer red flowers bloom. Soon I’ll take the hanging baskets off their hooks and find a place to protect them from the winter. Come spring, I’ll hang them again, hoping the woody vines will gift more leaves and flowers. The crickets still chirp. The silver crescent moon dangles in the sky. The softball fields are devoid of the usual Saturday night batters, fielders and screaming spectators. The train crossing bell rings in the distance.
A paring knife and an empty bottle of stout. A plastic yellow guitar string winder and an overdue dog-eared paperback. The small black fan hissing, blades spinning and spinning and spinning so much like the days and seasons and years. Poems run through the blood in the brain. Poems find their way to the paper, or they get pushed into the void.
Melodies curl around the fragments of text, chords are strummed, arpeggiated with skin and nail, decorated with suspensions and grace notes. Songs came along when you didn’t have a guitar in hand. The UPS guy knocked on your door when you were not at home to receive the package.
Technology disrupts. Robots displace humans. The internet makes us stupid. The dots on the screen present the deception of unity and order. Words on the page present the deception of meaning. It is, it is…
All in our heads.
Blood and cells and strands of protein present the deception of permanence. The rust eats the metal; the wood rots and turns to dust. The stone crumbles and the creaking gate comes loose from its hinge. Man and woman loosen their interlaced fingers and part at the fork in the road. The fan blades stop spinning. The air seems heavy and still.
~:~
The mandevillas will flower next year, and maybe the next. The broom will sweep away the yellow leaves. The silent strings will resonate for a moment.
~:~
The Dark Star Orchestra is coming this week. I’d like to go check them out. I missed all the good shows in September. And there were a bunch of them: Gillian Welsh, Merle Haggard/Kris Kristofferson, Furthur…
