The last few sips of doubt

It got out of hand at
some point,
the comedian’s act.

There was a psychoanalyst
in the audience
who came for a drink
with her sociologist friend
and spoke what she thought
the comedian meant.

They argued over this and that
in the act
till the comedian had heard them
and then left.

They passed through the old road
by the older tomb
where
seven tramps with eleven eyes
between them
lean on the medieval wall.
Every day.

It won’t give away
any time soon.

The journey on the
sunlit patches of the road
is like a dream
that they will dream of
sleeping
or awake in the time machine
later.

They will hold hands
before they part
or may kiss.

They will write
To each other
Till they meet again

But the comedian’s
not what he used to be,
he’s busy digging for roots
each time
under the follicles of hair
on his head
of what he said and what he meant.

January 3, 2009

The seventh admission of a manufactured personal history

In this mix of sleepy insomnia
and ennui,
I have carefully crafted a nostalgia trip.
I have booked us on journeys
through places that don’t exist
and plotted events that never took place.

I have it all laid out along the paths
of memory –
small, round, distempered, white
stones
relocated from free river beds
and lined up like soldiers
or school children waiting
for the march past
like fake anecdotes.

I have it all ready,
the blue prints
and the maps
of a relationship
that never existed.

I have imagined it
all here, waiting for you.

But come soon.

The road to madness is about to end.

December 10, 2008