My Winter Vacation
There seems to be always the young woman with a pillow, re-defining casual dress wherever she goes. An old black mans asks you to push his wheel chair down M street, he’s going the same way, gives the advice to never give-up. Advice that is really too late. You and I have no explanation. My friend who could die any moment shows up. The other friend too, the one who committed suicide. Both conjuring nothing. The alive one is staying where he is now, his heart and its electrical restart just a fact. The dead one is still shifting, never quite right. You wade into a demonstration, the house covered in fencing, they ask you politely to step to the side. It’s from us that secret service agent refuses a proffered mint, expected but a disappointment none the less. There are lessons in all this, mostly your planning brain can’t handle the permutations yet you love it or it is too damned hard. You have always wanted to be full deputized, in the pursuit of justice but the drumming never stops. You have paid your debt in airplane waiting rooms, you’d think a pardon would be at hand. But the hard truth is a plastic bag around a face, fogging up. Looseness on purpose though a saviour. Sameer the Uber driver drove right past you but you still gave him five stars, you know it's a hard knock life and why make it harder. That was a salute to the last century, if you think Annie or Jay-Z. But still true isn’t it. Ghosting the nicht away, same as it ever was. Can it be true and not true at the same time. It appears so, you seem to live that way. Not judging but you are a liar. Okay, judging. Muncie directly below the aircraft you imagined during the plenary session. And real life re-enacts the imaginary act, you knot your tiling memory. You, the planning mind, yes you. Fall into the deep end of the uncurious swill I keep for dreaming.
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