It Almost Seemed As If There Must

Because If She Let Go Of Her Grief Even For A Minute It Would Only Hit Her Harder When She Bumped Into It Again.

Peoples Lives, In Jubilee As Elsewhere, Were Dull, Simple, Amazing, Unfathomable-deep Caves Paved With Kitchen Linoleum. . . . What I Wanted [to Write Down] Was Every Last Thing, Every Layer Of Speech And Thought, Stroke Of Light On Bark Or Walls, Every Smell, Pothole, Pain, Crack, Delusion, Held Still And Held Together-radiant, Everlasting.

Now That I Think Of It, She Looked Splendid. I Wish I Had Met Her Somewhere Else. I Wish I Had Appreciated Her As She Deserved. I Wish That Everything Had Gone Differently.

Sometimes Our Connection Is Frayed, It Is In Danger, It Seems Almost Lost. Views And Streets Deny Knowledge Of Us, The Air Grows Thin. Wouldn't We Rather Have A Destiny To Submit To, Than, Something That Claims Us, Anything, Instead Of Such Flimsy Choices, Arbitrary Days?

And Did I Not Think Then, What Nonsense It Is To Suppose One Man So Different From Another When All That Life Really Boils Down To Is Getting A Decent Cup Of Coffee And Room To Stretch Out In?