When you visualize the recent past, do you see it as being somewhere over on the left?
I need to get off my ass and start writing poetry again
post haste, before the sun starts setting on days, and weeks, before I find myself 40, spread on on a beach blanket, basking in the fire island sun
It comes quickly, you know. A priest once told me that the Devil's greatest deception was convincing humanity that there's time (Father Bob, I believe, now dead and gone) --
but what about? Love and death ad nauseum? The roar of motors on York Road (soon to be a memory, soon enough), the ever present early summer rain? The sun sets over Fire Island, the traffic crawling past Curtis Bay.
How when I'm sitting on the john and look left
into the room length mirror, flickering candles beneath the burned-out bathroom light (one in four), through the red hair and the beard and the wire-rimmed glasses I can sometimes still see Helen gazing back at me? More still, the McHales, the Ronans, the tree stretches left into the past, The Wars, The Famine, the Kings of Ireland, the Dawn of Man.
And she's gone a year and change now. The sun sets suddenly enough.
I need to get off my ass and start writing poetry again.