The Happenstance Room
The happenstance room was full. It was booked out until 2013, by memories that did not get their due. Since the memories hadn’t enough ceremony in their time, they came to the happenstance room to dine together and laugh their sepia toned laughs.
Some were young, despite being from long ago. Other memories, like those of learning to tie a shoe, seemed quite old. They sagged in the corner booths, bled from their eyebrows and cursed each other for choosing a better gig— an orgasm or even something as obvious as a postcard.
The loudest memories congealed at the front of the house and got wasted. Most seemed to belong to only one person. Others—inauguration speeches, fourth quarter comebacks and the eradication of a disease—had almost been acknowledged to the point that they would sit for ages without making an order, or if they did was often just a digestif and the bill…
please.
Remarks on the Last Law
Here we, still dealing with the strange imperative
forgetting it is just one of many
descrete only as a bay and its ocean
after the tide goes too far out
And so perhaps the only imperative is the tide
the lifting and dropping of life
by another
that one seeming imperative
in an indifferent sea
Collecting Our Own Endlessness
in the place
where no one has time to be themselves
true enough.
And yet never enough
our endlessness still calls us
from some invisible shore
Echoes, Becoming
The city, it seemed, could echo every sound contained with in it, but with a delay, an uncoupling and then a release. Every sound was echoed an hour after the fact or its becoming. And then on the hour a digest was released—all that the city had heard before. Sometimes these sound got children a free day from school, created babies or liquidated debts. The aural stasis was interrupted for only a moment, but every time, it seemed the most beautiful moment of the day.
The Contingency Atlas
—drawn by those
drawn to those
who cant find a way
to follow their own nose.
Called Back to the Table
Did I tell you about the dream of sauce pans?
the ones that have never made a meal
they hang above the stove
in the kitchen of a lesser god
shining monuments to what he one day might make
and there is no talk of starving
because this god is fed on words
that get emptier in the half light
as life threatens to go uncooked
until finally the sauce pans are put to heat
just as we are called back to the table
If Honesty Were a Maverick
And effort a talking toy
You would pull the string to hear:
Go home cowboy
