Subverting patience one expectation at a time. I like to weaponize existentialism - it’s my kink. I don’t even like the music, I just know you like me for listening. What a ball, a beautiful wedding. So pulls the oxen on cart. Pardon me a moment while I spiral out of control here.
I did nothing but watch helpless as the young of my generation, the gifted and beautiful, trapped themselves in the same dead ends we hated the old for wasting their lives on. I’m sorry.
From birth your time, they say, will come. Your family excited, the papers, you sign. Guns flare. The uncles, the grandads, the fathers - those left - they say, your time will come. You sign, they cheer, you fight, they boo. Your war will come.
It becomes a dream you share. The first to wake up leaves.
Let their derision fuel your passion.
Our ancestors sold the future
for convenience. Now,
we waste away,
fighting for peace of mind.
I would have rather walked. Despite the early spring chill, I longed for a refreshing hike.
I parked, feeling the tires’ dread an inch from a small grit burn. They needn’t have gone through this existential horror except that I had so many quarters to rid myself of.
Standing at the roadside, the long–necked animal swallowed my change. It ate eagerly, one by one, and in turn showed all that I was an honest person with no proclivity for petty crime.
I waited for the meter to down the last coin with a metallic gulp. After it squawked happily, I climbed back behind the wheel and drove home so I could take the walk I desired instead.
Shapes in raw granite, a person. An unaware, apathetic block- head staring blankly in the mirror, hammered and sanded. From top to toe, mouths run - collecting minerals - dribbling away. Forward springs life, etching down the drain. Rock chips stumble over each other. Dust finds home on rough edges - inevitably the floor, cracks in my dry, clay-soaked hands, and cloth folds wherever paint doesn’t already cling. The eyes: pained, long set. A muscular beauty, the rest, one casual greeting at a time. In and out of days, nights fitting somewhere between, apparently. I work.
Please, good hatred, I crave your amnesty’s desire. I live without rent due anytime this month - seek me. On occasion, the one she missed; less often each day. Who taught her those things, yes, you like. Much obliged. Her sculpture, an idle thing to revere - an idea molded to life scrape by harrowing scrape. Her best image, a stampede alight, oh alright. Cherish her, I could not. Keep her, you could not. Try.