14 May 2018

Postcard 127

The Unbecoming of Self
(Harpers 336)
They take me, take, take
me away & that takes
my sleep away. There
she is in that place &
she can't get out. I'm
like a slow motion
version of my old self.
Where's my wife? I want
my wife. Giraffe -- they
just run around don't they?
Chickens -- I guess chickens
are animals. Pigs! We had
a farm & I liked the pigs!
I feel very good all the
time, oh boy! Why is
that woman bothering me?
My butt is drunk. I have
everything done! Everything
done. Its all going in the
place that goes in the place
for each. This is not a
bad thing. It is just a
different thing. It requires
different kinds of attention.

For all of us who fear --
I must die so that others may live. It will be my mind, I suspect, that kills me. Or, amusingly, my other end - either one incontinent. Lets not discount a failure of skin, or my heart gets up in protest. Anyhow, I will go, finally unknown, finally unknowable. I may leave, but I will go and others will be. Should I rage, should I fight, who or what would I resist, but me --
unknown letting go?
I say easy sink into dark sea unrelenting. I say, feed another stream. Fold up on myself.
And, half written, half unknown,
O rejoice at being.
A being beyond my own design, wondering if I did it well. Well, did I? Let go of words, of hard won thoughts like me, thou, I.
I must die so others may be.
Return to sea.

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