Today, I’m at the freehand on Ohio (19 E), feeling fortunate that I can leave
then to
somewhere to sleep the same night
then to
my need to rush the gauntlet where people (are meant to) battle to meet (but ultimately fall short of) my lofty expectations
then to:
negative ruminations behind
and a mind to be sure when this happens next time…
I’ll end the war in a loft
some place more than just “somewhere to sleep the same night”
Utopia was real
At one time
It was not new
Was not unlikely
Was deserved
At one time
Till then, again
Endure this hell
What is not gradient?
What flow of time isn’t eventual memory loss?
What remembrance wasn’t each day feeling the real thing less and less and then transferring sensation into delusional perception—for the sake of not fading?
What isn’t gradient?
It should not even be a word.
What catatonic love wasn’t daily forgetting why anything was worth the efforts?
Who is born as man?
Who is born, skin already taught?
Flesh nearly ready to burst?
Ready to give up into deadly
nothing but still
Floating into air like interpretive dance and all muscles pulsing?
Who is born man?
What song isn’t transition from now until the end?
( This piece was recently published the Hawaii Pacific Review. That enough was reason to open it & I was more than pleasantly surprised❕💬 )
by Hosho McCreesh (from A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst) At the chalet and you’re guzzling down bombers of Farmer beer, and the occasional measure of …
A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst
