There is a park where I walk to
In the dark with my dog
Where three great Eucalyptus stand
In my childhood a man sat beneath one of them and took his
own life.
I know this because they grow near where I went to school as
a child.
At night the sprinklers run
Big rooster tails of water rain down over everything
with a stillness that I can place
I have walked here for decades
To steal loquats from one of the neighboring trees.
And I stood a while in thought.
Wondering which one exactly it was
Her voice came to me. clear with concern
Sensing that I was thinking on the topic:
Why do they do that?
I don’t know entirely,
humans are complicated creatures. Sometimes they become sad.
What is that? She pulls
the word sorrow from my mind.
I imagine the man, revolver in hand, placing the weapon to
his chin.
She interrupts. I still
have the little piece of metal inside me.
Beaming, as if she has a special piercing.
I kind of respect it.
I look into my phone
anxiously trying to
get in contact with another human.
With their broken juvenility.
Sorrow pouring into me like an emptiness I cannot place.
A human feeling
standing there
upon nameless thin places
like monoliths in the dark
dancing interpretively to the zephyr of the night
perceiving the universe more as time than as space
Everything you guys experience
is short-lived. Even your suffering.
& I kind of respected it.
As I thought about the frivolity of being a human
Overwhelmed in powerlessness from one moment to the next
I went home to handwrite words
In some feeble attempt at traversing time
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