sideways through soft hands spilling tear drops
through a sieve on the overpass and onto the
cars. the jumper with a yearbook photo of the
girl in his wallet and the shaking hands taken
back through the night until it stops/
Crisis is good—it brings change and renewal. The human being is a creature of crisis, a fictional creature. For we’re creatures of desire. If we didn’t invent desires, if we didn’t invent fictions, we would die.
What am I doing, talking, having my figments talk, it can only be me. Spells of silence too, when I listen, and hear the local sounds, the world sounds, see what an effort I make, to be reasonable. There’s my life, why not, it is one, if you like, if you must, I don’t say no, this evening. There has to be one, it seems, once there is speech, no need of a story, a story is not compulsory, just a life, that’s the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.