Under The Milky Way

15 May

(take 2)

pulling up anchor once again or rather pulling out the stopper
and letting everything go down the drain and watching it
but not helpless, just watching it:
spiders, plastic frogs, little umbrellas, bits of skin and hangnails,
and paperwork from the eliot ness days, found in rotting bins
in abandoned warehouses in Cleveland,
sound bites of dizzy children’s laughter squeezing down the thin end of the funnel
into the pipes
into the storm drains.
liquidity.
in 1996 there was a seven-liner which got published in some decently known
such and such literary magazine and stirred some interest with its stinginess
for language; collected accolades, collected a cheque for a couple hundred
(which all went on Johnnie Blue and two packs of cloves)
was strangely prophetic in its decree of familial loss;
was somewhat premature, too, but all blueprints indicate I have good genes for longevity
and so everything comes a bit slower for me
(although my predictions have always held).
everything comes a bit delayed.
sometimes a decade and a year later, but it still comes.
W.C. Fields: “death where is thy sting?”
there are hundreds of other pieces mixed into the pot; among them:
one year anniversary since grant mclennan’s death, fifteen years since Mogadishu,
twenty since kilbey penned “Milky Way” for this skinny kid
listening on giant headphones and working out the financials
of trying to study film at University.
kilbey runs The Time Being now, you can hook to it from this platform.
on the right hand side.
more pieces: kids running east, down a cracked paved highway on a flat plateau,
disappearing into the Denver unstable horizon,
thirteen summers since I witnessed the carnage in Rwanda
and everything is replaced properly. Darfur.
now.
fifteen since bullets in Bosnia. Mostar. Massacre in Srebrenica.
fuck.
i don’t ever want to see things like that.
i don’t ever want things like that to happen.
but they will, always.
it’s general nature.
“in the fall the war was there but we did not go to it anymore.”
that’s Hemingway at age 22.
so I step out of one life and into another at age 37 and nothing’s changed.
act 2 of 3. same faces in the audience. the fat lady’s warming up her chords.
people are alone, raging, not raging, confused, playing games, content, not,
trying to put together some sort of meaning to their daily absurdities, hanging
on dreams and following conventional scripts.
I’m no different. I went right down to the page by page. terrible screenwriter,
whoever wrote that piece for me. full of clichés and usual benchmarks.
but my fault nevertheless. I should’ve had a keener eye to discern.
and decisions came late, but at least they came.
see here, there is no road less travelled.
they’re all tightly-packed clay footpaths carved into the earth
by proper people, kind people, lost people, insane people, some even walking backwards.
Frost was wrong.
so was Donne.
islands, atolls, patches of sand covered by sawgrass, rocks, stratum.
none connected.
other pieces: uncles falling out of freight trains, children thrown out of cars
onto the frozen pavement, mayhem in Mesopotamia, dissidents disappearing in Beijing,
patched-up levees, burlap eyes, May,
possibilities.

Advertisements

3 Responses to “Under The Milky Way”

  1. Anonymous 15/05/2007 at 1:17 PM #

    Hugs…202

  2. slyboots2 15/05/2007 at 3:13 PM #

    Wa-wa indeed. But nevertheless, and still. True enough. and Frost was always wrong. Good job, mate.

  3. Lx 15/05/2007 at 5:20 PM #

    sly, we seem to always match up on our literary rants and sputum.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: