I kept my distance

Nursing it like a long-dead sparrow

Frozen in the act of surrender

I thought I could get closer from there

Circling your cosmos, darting in, darting out

Drawn to your flame, but fearing extinction.

I thought I knew too well

The smell of a singed heart

I saw myself scorched clean

Gone without a trace

Through the wild emptiness

Unable to dream, unable to desire

Which kills faster, flame or frost?

In the end is wilderness,

All wilderness

It could be a dream, all this wondering,

All these vaporous glimpses, A thin shroud of certainty

Enwrapping nothing.

Or it could be truth,

Something as trivial as truth.

We make symbols of everything,

An ordinary tree becomes life,

Which itself becomes an ancient torment

Of flesh-riven souls.

Even we are mere metaphor,

Encapsulated divinity,

A finger with no moon

To point to.

Know thyself, the oracle says,

But we are all in the box with

Schroedinger’s cat,

And die in the act of knowing.

This is the true meaning of Eve’s gift,

That god, condemned to live forever,

So jealously tries to wring from our souls. 

It’s the bigness of clouds that gets me,

Great, relentless, unraveling  bolls

Searching the smear of life beneath.

“We call this the Hydrogen Dance;

The clouds are coaxing Carbon from below.

When they find it, they will weep with joy.”

I sit, mouth agape, and wonder when they’ll find me.

Unnamed but for a half breath.

I made stars from it,

And earth, and water,

And the wheel of good and evil.

From the stars grew light and darkness,

And the watery earth gave forth desire,

And will, and death.

Of good and evil came life,

And the love that kills to sustain it.

I threaded time to link these pearls.

If I had shoulders,

They would be riven to the bone.

If I had wings,

They would tatter.

If I had life,

I would die.

If I had a name,

It would be Forgotten.

In the beginning was the end..

To the Director

Ambulance Company

Dear Sir/Madam,

Not long ago, I had the opportunity to ride in one of your conveyances, during my recent cardiac indisposition.  While the overall experience was a positive one, I do have a few suggestions, which I hope will be taken in the spirit in which they are proffered.

Firstly, the gentlemen you employed for this service were, I’m quite sure, well versed in the medical arts, but they lacked, in my opinion, an acceptable level of polite behavior.  Not only was there no proper introduction, but they burst into the room in a manner completely lacking in decorum, and began immediately to open their satchels and scatter their tools about like so many children’s blocks.  I had scarcely the time to register my disapproval, when, without preamble, they began to ask me the rudest questions!  What significance it had how long or how hard I had labored on the commode, I could not fathom!  I shall not mention the various parts of my person which were treated with untoward familiarity, and upon the rough manner in which I was trundled onto a hard, narrow board, tied down like a trussed pig and carried to the ambulance (in full view of my neighbors!) I shall not dwell.  While a show of delicacy might have been richly appreciated, it was utterly lacking!

Secondly, the ambulance furniture, while assuredly functional, might just as well benefit from some regard for comfortable disposition.  I believe I have already mentioned the activity in which I was thoroughly absorbed at the time of  my incommodation.   The utterly unyielding nature of the surface to which I was affixed not only failed to mitigate the circumstance, but, indeed, exacerbated the condition to the point of dismay.  Suffice it to say that a more forgiving surface might have limited the extent of my discomfort.

Thirdly,  the conveyance itself had a rude appeal, rather more like a commercial vehicle than anything appropriate for the discreet transport of the temporarily incapacitated.  Indeed, the sharp edges and gaudy colors were nothing short of jarring to one so disposed.  I believe I have seen designs more pleasing to the eye, and more soothing to the sensitive, displayed in showrooms on the continent.  The work of Messrs. Rolls and Royce spring to mind, and I’m certain many others can be conjured as well.

Finally, I come the most distressing aspect: the journey itself.  I will pass over the jostling, the noise, and the garish lights;  I had by this time despaired of such considerations.   I would have thought, however, that something rather more pleasing than a crude fluorescent fixture might have been provided for what could very well have been one’s last sight on earth.  A flat screen television, or at least a nice beach scene?

Respectfully,

S. Malcom Grimsby (Retired)  (Not Yet Deceased)