by Pat Nolan
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LOST AND FOUND | Don’t worry about making it real it’s all imaginary
windy and warm a summer of days approaches
my leg is killing me my arm is killing me my head is killing me my back is killing me my foot is killing me my hand is killing me my gut is killing me my butt is killing me my etcetera is killing me it’s enough to think that there is a vast conspiracy to kill me by enlisting various parts of my anatomy
sky scudding clouds
some bush league monomaniac
heat tsunami splashes me with my own sweat temps in the hundreds the wilt factor “wilt thou or won’t thou” too hot to do anything endure enforced leisure
I can’t deny I’m awake though I’d rather still be sleeping
I’ve aged if only a dozen hours subtly who I am is not who I was
snatches from the music library in my head of the tunes about to play as I insert the disc I‘m remembering the future and it’s disturbing but that’s the nature of prophecy
throw on a shirt stride out the door gray and tarnished leafed dead tree like a column of smoke against the mostly green hillside workmen have spray painted the dingy asphalt with lines and arrows where they are soon to dig
(letter from the water company details all not that I have to be happy about it someone is feeding them infrastructure funds I can already feel the cramp in my wallet)
joy can come in installments a payment plan arranged by the senses the burst of blossoms at the tip of cane thick tendrils poking through an otherwise well behaved privet hedge the bees tiny striped astronauts hover over the radiating pistils
at the end of a long stretch of shadow emerge into full light past ivy clotted fence past where someone has discarded a computer monitor and a large luxury guzzler blocks the driveway the many ways thoughtlessness be made known
can it be my genius will become the instrument of my destruction that that is its function logic of the page violated written down I often don’t hear what I said
fresh faced into the morning breeze
language is as much fiction as anything else in one of those vague but exhilarating Rousselian moments it’s better if I don’t pull back the drapes
on the verge of greatness stubbed my toe numb maybe that was “snubbed by my toe” the extremities always the first to leave I may be getting better “than what?” mocks the echo |
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