by dschapman

No, I don’t read in cafes… At least I haven’t, not since I grew – not since I had – not since… Nonetheless, I can’t help but listen to jazz, and feel blue, and think about cafes by the river or railroad, the tracks in the old urban district, when people were potentially poets, and good men potentially heroes… I was grieving, and I was right to grieve; to say nothing of the thick black sweater, the long black coat, the long black car with blackened windows… Where does it go, whether you let it or not, and what does it do in the meantime? I haven’t thought of phantoms like these in decades, at least, what seems like decades… Is it really decades, now? Is that it, then? Somberly, but not too without hope… They took out all the furniture, and now the walls are bare, and I am unable to see for the shadows above me, one by one the light bulbs crack and fizzle; in every dream, an anarchy, a soft revelation of contentious faith; rubberized passion; plastic appeal; I can cope with this, I can appreciate this, I can feel good and tap my feet with this, in rhythm, in decency, in vague understanding… Oh, how serious! A flaunt; I should not be flaunting… Bad form. I am feeling… okay… lately. Still, I ask myself – shouldn’t I be doing something other-than? As if the other-than existed… I cut up passages of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and Sartre, and I re-arrange them into a manuscript, and I send it off to a publisher… I am rejected… They chide me, and I, rightly chided, beg for forgiveness… Bad form. Curtsy, sweep the women off their feet – grand installations of metal and glass, light and water, lit up in the city at night by the bus station, waiting to get on the bus with a suitcase full of clothes and conspicuous powders, vials and spoons. Someone has gone this far before… but their tracks are old, and fading… “Take care,” at least, that’s what I say…