People say I was just a frontman for the mob. True or not, I was surely giving the impression of swimming in a dark sea. This is a minority view, to be sure, but it’s kind of like a poem devoted to a deep breath while standing up.
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I believe everything is real. It is all made of stone. But the stars in my eyes say otherwise when I see the shadows. As a singular measure of circumference burns into my life, animals vanish in the darkness. I believe in the infinite uncertainty of poetic blindness.
My head is full of crazy birds, whose songs I hear but whom I can never see through my mental foliage. Today I nourished some hope like there was no tomorrow. Screaming with a hiss and rising to a roar, I slammed my head against a pumice wall. Pieces of my face, of my skull, became leaf litter and I remembered how my anarchism is influenced by a silence not absolute.
A quick sea-level lunch will turn up delightful giggles near the remains of an ancient temple. Seriously, try it. Walking, and pausing from time to time, adds some sense of lyrical impulse, and, perhaps hopeless pursuit. The feeling of pointing your finger toward lambs you can not recognize, is useful too, in its own idiosyncratic way.
The way I see it, she was hoping I’d forgive her. “That’s alright. I forgive you. I understand.” Why not, I thought. Yet, the direct blame should be on her. On the weekend I call her every hour. I leave a messages on her cell phone all the time. It’s an enormous battlefield. I am aware of over-stretching. Curdled greens and anaerobic seaweed are lingering beyond our mounds of broken promises.
I don’t know what reason she could have had for trusting me more than anyone else. Actually, she liked standing in the middle of a field, and might not have been breathing, but definitely was in peace. She was now panting, holding a celluloid propeller, and drenched in a small part of a larger story.
She reminds me of dancers drinking in bars; goats munching grass and the scratching of mosquito bites; hand wringing, promises and progress towards goals; long golden afternoons at the water’s edge; and wet eyelashes over peppermint sodas. Yes there are a lot of things that don’t change as a result of time.
No comments were made after the party. The only sounds uttered except our names were, “uuogh” and “fthoah”. The overall ambiance was mysterious. It was foreboding and confrontational. “The Germans killed all the antelope,” one partygoer asserted later. A week later, in a chatty mood, over a mint julep at an Serbian deli near her apartment in the suburbs, Anne said, “The drum was banging, slow, and punch-drunk.
“I’d like to see you again with a potato in your mouth.” Sometimes there needs to be a safe space to go to. She gave a long cascading laugh. “I’ll be right with you.” She walked many miles that day, with her high heels clicking. She always wore sheer black nylons, and her figure was an inert idea.
I have had the opportunity to visit Boboland twice so far - once as a teenager and once more recently as a clown. Each time, I’ve been very observant in the hopes of better understanding any significant element of hilarity. I’ve explored it in many fascinating ways, including the statues in the city of Boboville.
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August 2018
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