April 26, 2004
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My shoes became stained by the pulp of rotting fruit, as I slogged through the abandoned orchards of generational imaginings. Stunned by the magnitude of what was forsaken, I reeled in the direction of the familiar road. I glimpsed the extent of what we failed to notice when we hurried past this place... the vastness of our tiny agendas, the vitality of our ignorance that propelled us past the details of the landscape; all of this, overlooked by a generation entranced by its own hurried footfalls. We dismissed the blur of objects, mistaking their lack of clarity for our own indistinct visions of ourselves and of the world. Instead, we watched a great deal of television. Sure, tantalizing fruit seemed to bloom in the electronically seeded air. Not only fruit, but facsimiles of flesh and divine fire. We hungered for it, batted at it like house cats hunting invisible prey in empty air. Soon enough, we grew weary from our futile exertions. We collapsed in restless repose. Then, using the negations of our shallow breath, we exhaled into existence a world that could contain only the most airless of aspirations. But it seemed little cause for concern. We had only grown a little fat and forgetful. As evening arrived, spreading its pools of evening shade, I allowed my mind to move towards its edge, then I waded in and was submerged by a drowning tide of experience denied, unknown, and unlived; soon, swallowed mouthfuls of the ocean water of life-deferred burned my lungs, its sea salt stung my eyes-- and I cursed us all. When I emerged: chilled, drenched and dripping from the briny water of what-might-have-been, my memory, in an attempt to side step the rising of a cold, accusatory wind, ducked into a vast library of studied blankness and I buried myself in books that had crumbled to forgetful dust. No need to panic: our story is safe in oblivion -- I can guarantee you that. The flat-screen sky of my television mindscape broadcasts only weather reports for the abandoned cities of dead empires: clear weather from here on out, I was assured. Note to self: avoid sudden immersion in oceanic memory. This should not be all that difficult to accomplish. Do not, repeat, do not: seek out the damn ocean and then fall in. I think I can steel myself to that goal. But... still, indistinct intimations flash across the horizon line like ground lightning. Though I now avert my gaze, I, at times, awaken late at night knowing that in the once-glimpsed grove of what-never-was-to-be, immanent understandings glow like lichen. Stalks of slime mold bloom to flame like struck matchsticks. We may remove the batteries of our smoke alarms because the wildfires of our aging bodies have not yet grown to cellular conflagration, but the smell of acrid smoke lingers in the house. It stinks like singed hair. What did not come-to-be could undo us yet. That which never existed may yet cause us to cease to be. Tomorrow, please remind me to go shopping for a new pair of shoes. · · · · · ·
Poetry on Swans Phil Rockstroh on Swans (with bio). Do you wish to share your opinion? We invite your comments. E-mail the Editor. Please include your full name, address and phone number. If we publish your opinion we will only include your name, city, state, and country. Please, feel free to insert a link to this work on your Web site or to disseminate its URL on your favorite lists, quoting a few paragraphs or providing a summary. However, please DO NOT steal, scavenge or repost this work on the Web without the expressed written authorization of Swans. This material is copyrighted, © Phil Rockstroh 2004. All rights reserved. |
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