Without a title firmly in place, I know I am worrying over a phrase which cannot be clear even to my future self. If Brendan even chooses to read my work is a long shot. Even if he finds this hesitancy in my journals in unlikely. Odd to place such a situation, such terms of concern over an event unlikely to even emerge—
Let’s blame Richard Jackson’s book Alive All Day. His steadfast tone throughout the pages carries a worry (yes, call it that), a concern over what it means to be human— over the continual issues we as a species inflict on others within our territories, our range of reality. He steps beyond an individual focal point, taking in global matters. So with deductive reasoning, I cannot blame him for my current insecurity. This ongoing dilemma lies too close to an individual’s private act— and not the overall universe.
As a result— interestingly enough— in the end my solution sits in front of me in an obvious manner: keep reworking the lines until a sense of resolution falls in place. If the poem never finds a positive closure, then I’ll never present it as a finished piece.
•87/ Pan removes his damp clothes from the laundromat washer, half folds them back into the dryer a few feet away on the right hand side of the narrow building. Before he finishes inserting the proper amount of quarters, he reflects inward, staring deep at the atoms of his essence, the small spots of infinite universes unto themselves, spinning around themselves as static, the same carbon-based elements which exist in white dwarf stars millions of light years away from this town, this small rural town in southeastern Texas— he pauses, then shoots the coins into the unit to sort out another load of wet clothes.