30. ramblings / paths / reptiles


In the process of driving home from his grandparents in the passenger seat, my boy surprised me by playing “Blue Monday” on his phone, that New Order song I heard in college, that year when all paths chosen seemed wrong, when all statements seemed to be the wrong statement, so I drifted, awkwardly within the perimeters of all failures and misguided relationships, wanting to establish a firmer sense of self, but hopelessly, repeatedly, always managing to lose all perspective and academic skills because I was a cocky sonofabitch who of course knew what he wanted (even if he didn’t) stumbling forward with lunar tides across the commons, in a winter which broke all records for cold, blizzard conditions seeping under the skin, deep in the bones, freezing one in place if he/she were not careful enough as they transitioned forward, blindly, following the steady beat, clutch of rhythms. Almost endless, nonending, perpetual reminder: find a goal, a trail, a gravel road, a backside path to poetry, always poetry, that insistent voice in the head, that eternal chant, an unravelling spool of thread—


My father caught a coppermouth in the corner of his backyard; a neighbor stopped by, chopped off its head with a shovel. Buried the head in the back garden, under what remains of the summer cannas stalks. Large mouthed flowers, bloodred, burgeoning over reptilian death.


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