• Poetry Snark
  • Friday, July 01, 2005

    Forgive Me

    Ah dear friends, what is there to do but beg of your forgiveness for yesterday's lysurgic foray? Well, well, a man of my age must proactively encourage the mind's ongoingness, waging against the trumpet of time, dear friends. A swan, I am told, has an average lifespan of 102 years, during which time said bird may float upon the water, take brief flights, catch & consume innumerable small fish & spend the remaining time idly watching the world turn, friends. I am no swan, though advanced in years I may be, I seek the current of the day, friends, yes, yes, & a tab or two, well, a gentleman like myself finds the hearty benefits. That said, I am rather tired this morning as a result of my escapades. I awakened slightly damp from what I believe to be a swift dip in the harbor, wherein, on the calm sheen of the water I recall the stars reflected in perfect symmetry, & like a chthonic or rather aqueous Thales, I dipped my mane in the stars dear friends, thinking the water the very ether of the cosmos. No visions awaited me belowsurface, but the stench of yellowfish, the slow viscous grime of oil & the confouonding shouts of the boardwalk security men. In their pursuit of me I swore them demons come for my eternal soul & thus found my feet flighty & swift. Over my shoulder, yes, yes, as they faded, I thought I saw their bodies merge into one, a silhouetted Chang & Eng, a Platonic starperson, a...well, you understand. Then I tripped, my Nike stuck momentarily in the groove of an empty Chevrolet hubcap left in a vacant lot. The collision with the verdant groundcover & the slight poof of dirt that clouded upon my face brought me to my senses. I walked back to my flat, friends, soiled, damp, my quest come to its empty-handed close. A spot of Irish breakfast & a quick glance over some Blake & here I am, hours later, my head the busted filament of a lightbulb frayed to darkness.

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