Think about it, take a cab, go get tested
in a lab,
call your little brother to remind you of
that joke,
order six six-packs of Coke, study Latin harder
–
as if you’d quantities of answers kept like
eggs
.
and milk and butter in a larder, fresh as
long
as you believed in them, ready for the choosing,
using, losing. But how exactly do you get from in
to out to there to here to anywhere? Your
means
.
of transport are a queer shenanigan –
imagine if
we knew that what you do to make the story
of your life
come true depends on flying in un-flyable
contraptions,
so disastrously incapable of getting off
the ground
.
that anyone who saw you trying to effect a
flight that way,
would stare, embarrassed, down, away, too
stricken
at the sight of it to meet your eyes: and
yet in spite of it
you rise, and sometimes even soar, or if
not soar
.
then hop and stumble and get up again and
dream
of so much more of what and where you think
you are
that you’ve no doubt that’s where and what you'll
be.
Your real life is a mystic inning in a
ballgame no one
.
knows you’re playing every day. No one, anyway,
but me.
That’s what you don’t say. That’s the
secret unconveyable
essential key to how you get to something
for which
you can care, how you can bear believing what
you see.
.
You say that none of it is true. No room in
it for you:
don’t know with whom it has to do – unless
it’s me.
Must be me, the chimpanzee.
You say it’s time
I climbed back up my tree.
I climbed back up my tree.
.
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