Don’t Pray For Karma Resolution Unless You Can Handle It

bog life

Here we go again. Washing dishes in cold water because the hot water tank is broken.

Walking into the wrong door because they all look the same. Believing the flowers in this meadow are real, trying to take them home.

Getting sick of living this way. Pinning myself into a corner is my hallelujah. Knowing they shackled all four limbs because they feared me is my north star.

Pacing these floors, falling through trap doors, searching for notes that never arrived but convincing myself I just misplaced them.

I forgot to mention that I saw a busted lawn chair on the curb a few weeks ago. If I don’t add it to the list, it’s like it never happened.

Part of me feels there’s nothing I can do to change a fate accepted years ago, no matter how many stories I write. All the same story for years now and nobody noticed because nobody is reading.

I learned to be so invisible that even I forgot I exist. The shock of remembering that I built this place has sent me reeling back to not being certain of anything.

But there it was, unmistakable, real enough that the truth of it hasn’t faded after weeks of waking out of swamp dreams. True enough that it has withstood all of my doubts.

For a while, I thought the pasta just wasn’t done. Then I started to consider alternative possibilities. I could get caught in the endless nature of maybes if it wasn’t for the maybes I’ve already walked through and survived.

My hands are chapped from hanging this laundry on the line all winter. My legs are tired from chasing noon sun.

The shock of it has me second guessing my pen. How could I not have known? What within me allowed such an important detail to go unnoticed?

In the loneliness of this new awareness that even a good intention can create such a sin, I reach for someone I’m not sure exists. And if he does, I’m now convinced he can’t hear me from the basement as the air raid sirens start up again.

But what does it matter anyway, considering the nothing I have to offer now.

Should I come by with one of these cans that line the west wall of this cement hole? Can I pass you a note before we talk to let you know what that is hanging from my shoulders so you can decide, like all the others, whether it’s a situation you want to step into?

Or do we just call TOD and tie up any loose ends so they don’t drag through whatever streets and meadows we build with those we shack up with in the future?

Am I waiting for something down here? Have I forgotten why I descended these stairs weeks ago? Oh, right, I fell through a trap door as I was pacing a floor.

Was it a floor I’ve walked before?

I think I’ve been walking two floors at once. Which is why two is reflected back to me through my heart broadcast.

I’m sorry it’s taking so long to sort this out. I keep sending what I didn’t order back to the kitchen, but it comes back dressed up in Alfredo sauce like I won’t notice the switch with my first bite.

It doesn’t take that many push backs to gobble up the whole plate trying to figure out if what I ordered is under there.

I’m stuck somehow. And I’d ask you for a hand at this point, I swear, if I knew you could reach me.

Once I figure out what I’m caught on, I’ll find a way to get back to you.

And then the cold dread of this: what if you are the thing that I’m caught on?

having a cigarette in late August, 2015

You’ll find me in places where others pass through. Going anywhere? I’ll be sitting still in the middle of the highway. Cross legged. Dodging traffic. While one part of me knows this is the best thing, another part of me feels angry bitter resentful. That part hates stillness more than going backward. That part of me still sees stillness as going backward. Because anything that is motionless is backward. I’m a fucking bird. When the hell do birds stay still? Oh ya, when they ride the waves.

So, in truth, I’m not sitting still. I’m gliding. And it feels weird to hitch a ride. But why do I feel this is what’s happening? Because I feel separate from the flow. That’s a constricted pov. I am as much a part of the flow as anything else. I am as much Camus as Whitman and Cummings and Plato and Einstein and Sagan and water and wind and soil and sun.

So I sit. It’s more difficult when I’ve been going like mad (auto word which makes me think of Lady Macbeth, to whom I’ve been recently compared. Unfortunately. I don’t think I should think too much about it. Just because that character was washing out blood and her OCD represented guilt from doing something wrong. That was not the intention of that comparison. It’s only my own shit that kicks in – the knowledge of the play. Not

Brb. Getting murdered by flies.