The taste of chalk finds its way
to your tongue through the back
of your nose after the rain begins
to hit the hot pavement.
You have missed something.
Because of this you suffer.
It is all right with the world. It is as it
should be and it is not fair and it does
not matter because fair is not for us.
Fair is not fair.
Fair or not fair
is not a fair exchange. Ex-
pectation is false.
All of it is a lie
in the mind of the past
about the mind of the future,
neither of which happens to be present.
The thing is, all the things are not in
the moment, are not of the moment,
are of course nothing but the moment
that, passing between us, happens to happen
when we are not looking, when we are
absent although we are present, when the
paradox of paradise or the paradise of
paradox in which we dwell or don’t dwell
for ever or never for a moment again
slips by us, slips us by, lisps and
lists into the future listlessly, help-
lessly, and we are stunned again
into silence, unarmored and stripped
to our amorous bones just enough to
dive back in and keep on diving even
when the pool has no water in it, even
when the air is as dry as dirt and our noses
crack and bleed and our eyes turn to the
dust in the holes in our heads for answers
that are not there for all the looking
and not seeing, for all the “Look at me,”
for all the “Nonono. Don’t look at me,”
for all the
“STOP LOOKING AT ME!”
for all the
“where are you?”
Of course we do not deserve any of this.
We suffer anyway. We suffer no matter
what. In or of or out of the moment, the
moment is already gone, and it is not fair
either. It is not square with a hole in it nor
is it a round without. It is a moment that
we have missed and it is not (fair or not fair) and
it presents itself despite itself
as you stand there,
alone with the rest of us
on the hot pavement
after the rain begins.
Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....