Some Kind of Surreal Future


 
The strangest encounters may come to fruition
from the day-to-day-to-day.
And we only know how to answer them
tomorrow . . .

A long time ago in a grassy field non-existent now beyond the neuroses inflicting me with memory, a girl with red hair and a flair for the dramatic told me that she spoke Spanish, fluent or near to. Well, I the relentless student who’d yet learned a flimsy representation of this musical tongue, in all my youthful eagerness gave wide audience to her. What she spewed forth was gibberish, something approximating a fourth-generation distillation of pig latin and actual Latin. Or in the moment, that nonsense imprinted on me so.

Life was simpler then, when we wept
from even the most frivolous aggression
against our being. The bully was always
in the effort not the ends.

But now . . . People rarely look me in the eye. Most incoherence directed my way comes strangled by an equally enigmatic anxiety. The last person to say “hello” to me did so with a sickening note of vapid goofiness. Love cannot flourish in such a wilting place.

Quiet reigns, for I’ve no endgame
save a fascination with the bubbled ends
of the fragmented future . . .

I wonder what became of that red-haired girl and the wound she nursed slit from my unambiguous disbelief. What would she say to me now that the springtime of her naivete has ripened and fallen away? What burgeons from maturation’s blood? Perhaps I can conjecture.

“My life will be bookended by lies.
So will yours. I only hope they will be
beautiful.”
 
 

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