Coming Down (continued)
VIII.
I met with a Russian lad and propositioned him--
he'll teach me as much of the Russian
language as he knows for booze each week.
Fair enough.
I saw him at a party the other night, and he
offered me some swigs of his scotch. I took them
valiantly, and he shook my hand afterwards.
Positive, glorious international relations.
And I have not forgotten about you,
weeping father, beloved mother, manly brother, Stoic
grandmother.
In the meantime, I help my Saudi Arabian friend.
We've talked of English grammar and U.S.-Middle Eastern
relations, and we can still hug each other at the end
of these seemingly controversial conversations.
I take pride in the world.
There is an icon with two hands cupping a microphone, and
I'm not sure
what it means.
Should I sing? Should I streak? Should I proclaim,
"Hey, world, I'm "right-brained," and I don't
give a
fuck!"?
Where I am not is an odd, eccentric place.
I think of my past teachers/professors and their intentions--
some were good, some were
selfish.
All were human.
I have no doubt that all the homeless are
weeping right now. They cry for food, for shelter,
for validation.
I wish I could give them everything,
but I can only give them shitty poetry (such
is life).
Surely, that cannot sustain a human life force
longer than water, food, shelter.
But, I have prepared pizza.
I have told you all that I might travel to the
"-stan" countries (Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, Turkmeni-
stan, etc.), and my weeping
father begs for my life. Maktub--it is written.
I can only tell him that I want to travel the world,
trek across sand dunes, hug Muslims, be young,
teach children a dominant language.
My Russian understands.
A misty morning, smothered in dew and
various scientific practices confront me (as
long as it's cold, I don't
care).
I'm still coming down, and a voice, a spirit,
tells me I have to ascend with it: am I ready?
Am I ready to transcend?
Am I ready to relinquish my earthly projects?
Am I ready to abandon any hope of love (for
a presumably flawless, golden afterlife)?
NO.
In the end, I'll be sprawled out all over the
sidewalk, and the moon and Venus
will shine over me. Beams of photons and
inspiration will luminously shine above me, and
I'll hear a distant astronaut say,
"Come here! Learn of our ways (what can
I say?)!"
NO.
The truth is, if Earth spontaneously combusted
or shriveled up into a celestial prune,
I would be here with it.
I'm willing to suffocate for you,
girl on the concrete steps.
I'm willing to say to everyone I thought I knew,
"I'm sorry, I can't make it. I can't be with you."
That's love.
I embody love (or a hideous imposter).
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