Camellia
No more teaching people how to liveand what to do. Today’s a star, orI am searching for the endlessendlessness inside myself. And in yourselfa flowering disco ball of foldingchairs clanging against my rather boney exterior.Also, in case you mayfor a non-alcoholic beer that actually tasteslike it’s drunk. I know I make it weirderwhen I stare, so I don’t look muchlike I used to in store windowsor on the spines of bookswith a blankness. No wonderI can’t find anything to drink. Water watereverywhere … And there’s a bleaknessto this unprocessed process, which iseveryday until never again. Soonerthan later I will wash up with youon a shore somewhere, tangled in kelpand old plastic bags, batteredby a shopping cart of bad clams,probably littlenecks or razors.If you’ve ever had a bad clam,you know the end result, but if you haven’tyou’ve at least read Emily Dickinson,so Death is just dead or dying and alsothe speaker of this poem. I betyou weren’t aware of that until now,and it definitely changes everything.You may want to go backto the beginning to really suss it out,or maybe you’re like meand just think, nah, I’ve had enough.That should be the end, but I’m prettysure it’s not. There will be hellto pay eventually for the disorderof your arrangements. But hey,I’m just the messenger and guideto the mysteries, the hysterics, the infiniteapplause. As in life, here, you’re on your own.Smell you later. Not really. Way to go.The eagle will escort you to your rock.
