I wish I might resent you, or Fate or my itinerant Guardian Angel. Yet who indeed might I blame? Your world has failed, I say. But it goes on, rotating beneath the feet of that gesticulating man who tumbles and falls, face first, into the soil. And another one takes his place. Give me ignorance or give me breath. Don't give me both. "All units, all units we have a Signal 23, at 2520 McComas Road, a structure fire." The police radio crackles to life as another dream goes up in smoke. Much as I adopt the alien, alienated pose, spirit blossoms alongside the blossoming rose. Treasures scattered everywhere, on the surface like rough diamonds in the dirt, or the fruit hidden underneath the shirt. Who knows what awaits the mind and senses as time unreels and star to star we bop. Will we catch up with God, does he hop a step ahead, leading us onward like the tortoise and the carrot. Meanwhile, we parrot the music and the clamor of this sphere. There are other places that I'd sometimes like to be. All other times, I'm glad to be here.
NOTE: Printout found in a bin in the garage from the old Huntington Herald-Dispatch newsroom, March 27, 1985, while working the cops beat one winter’s day. Lightly re-edited and formatted.
For updates on new essays, poems, diatribes, photo essays, experimental videos & sorta memoir excerpts, subscribe to this site’s free e-mail newsletter: TheStoryIsTheThing.substack.com