The thing is to sculpt warm solitude from
isolation and help it gleam. Don’t reach
out for the wrong things too often though you
will certainly itch and curse and doubt and
doubtless quit a few times a day and why
not—cf Nietzsche on suicide*—
remember that nothing can stop
all our secret legislators,
the sly taste makers and king breakers
who surely one day will squint forth
from their caverns to share the most
incorruptible—oh yes, yes
I also felt that went too far, but
buckle up, we’re leaning into the fall.
*[BGE, 4.157]
Tag: solitude
-
-
Sonnet
in what may have been a park weeds
without flowers climb white clouds cling
to the mountain an open wound
that won’t stop oozing broken mouths
growl in rusted junk chain-link yardsthe town gets smaller with every
breath though they never think to bite
the hands that keep them in cages
while kids throw stones at a hornet’s
nest dream of pills and lotterywins and the dog no longer feels
the chain that choked his younger daysand those who ran away still see
themselves mirrored in cracked black stone
-
Sonnet
with what time is left listen to
air conditioners drop drop drop
on the used tea bag of summer
while the waves of heat hit you on
uneven shards of sidewalk—though
later perhaps you’ll find some sweet
solitude and dream some drip could
bring a forgotten bloom or rare
herb back but the brink keeps creeping
and that green shade so far away—
so retreat to concrete above
the noise but not the heat and make
a quiet in which your fingers
if nothing else may sprout some leaves
other animals 