by Adam Gaucher
Sunday, November 03, 2002
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On one of my pilgrimages to
Duluth I can't help but
notice the man who drives into the
ditch; the anomaly of the situation,
his bloody face a sack of eggs
through the windshield. I wonder:
Which of his wives are waiting for
his arrival? Is that cigarette burning
a hole in my back seat? I soon
dismiss these questions as worryable,
and continue northward.
I wake up around midnight-o-fifteen
swimming in blackness and a classical
radio station (must have been Debussy,
now that I think of it). I don't
know where I am at the moment so
I omit any details for one dramatic
effect. Soon the paradox disrupts
the vapid atmosphere inside the room,
so I leave.
Like the annoying sound one's
thoughts make when a lipset cannot
be shut, I see things dripping
on a pile of dull. To this I offer
High Standard a drink. Maybe he'll
take a nap! But he only takes me,
along. (He can't sleep without me).
Could it be that in every senseless
scribble lies a purely artistic human face?
What motion pictures could disclose if
only what's good in theory presented an
immediate retort! Thoughts murder me.
"Christ they burden murder!" I exclaim
unheard. So be it loving mirror and
these, laughing backgrounds.
I know I've not existed until just
now. Now being then and whenever.
And though I continue northward, perhaps
beyond known destination, I can't help
but wonder: Which road will be most
well worth the struggle of passing by
unnoticed? Which baby duck will be the
first learned to fly? And will there still be
a seat for me, when the time comes
to burn a hole back there? Soon I'll dizzy
down again, with Mozart or Tchaikovsky;
with the whole lot of dead friendlies, as
I've once loved and put to shame.