YOUR NAME HERE by Pat Nolan |
by Pat Nolan |
|
for Michael-Sean Lazarchuk (1946–2008)
Why do robins think they’re better than everyone else mist draped rain soaked trees all manner birds hop around to understand any or all of it sometimes seems impossible clean out litter box enough Almond Roca to start a candy store “pleased dementia” dark invites chaos light reveals order the weight of rain cumulative get out of sync with the vast swirling force of everything and it’s a little like falling but through time buckle under the larger realization that an interrelated cohesion binds me as one molecule of hydrogen and two oxygen do bow to the majesty that holds it all together seized by its overwhelming presence the seamless dream of night and day a single dimension open to all comers that vast emptiness at the edge of light there are others myriad suns shape a face think of it everything happens suddenly the phone that rings and no one’s there read the world a lexicon of perceptions carried by wave and particle at that scale the edges blur sensory input overload and the page of each moment senseless recedes with a hammering echo framed by anticipation itself for half a second a gap bridged without a thought the void between each breath and leaf through narrated memories democratic cells vote for the optimum state with their tiny electric applause shape of mind changed by mood body configuration goes with it lean jowl feline bottomless black olive eyes or plump fuzzy kitty asleep by the fire preparing for the worst shuffling through old fears a surfeit of now can’t wait on the inevitable tomorrow alone the universe is immense sharing it brings it down to size in harmony the rhythmic pulse like cosmic background music those moments of perfect pitch (and the glissando that follows) abraded by rough air create dust anticipating fate tripped on a curb woke me up ulterior motives days later become clear driven by a different engine bypass frontal considerations an inner core in touch with purpose leaves nothing to chance when doubt comes a-callin’ Monsieur Rene Descartes changes the subject “You think? Mon cher, but what to you feel?” someone knocked a quarter size chunk off of a Stonehenge megalith and ran off with it at first its intended use in some arcane ritual I could get as the motive for the theft but then it occurred to me it would fetch a pretty penny on eBay the sacred and the profane have the same street address now what I muddied my feet in a puddle of Aristotle at the edge of nonsense where pointlessness and impossibility meet I was starting to think like Henry Ford and that amigo is downright scary elastic rainbow stretches across an uncertain blue I can hear the random jostle of atoms in Brownian motion work goes on all around in the evening pick the ripe peaches drink the white wine imagine old blues call and response: “you know I’m famous honey I’ll sign my autograph until my pen runs out of ink” to which is replied “and you can bet baby that’s always quicker than you think” who can talk of cunning silence (I had to go open my big mouth) what way is the way I am now the way I will always be my intellect a metaphysical magnet attracts irony I people the atmosphere where the rubber hits the road bidden I will go inhabit all parallel universes unnoticed at a moment’s notice to deny is to understand dust touches everything as a reminder of the ever-presence of life that near invisible connection to the rest of the cosmos exposed as a web of relationships between what catches light and the infinitesimal |
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