When I think of all the good times that I’ve wasted
having good times is the happenstance truth of
my twenties and thirties. Being no more than
a serf to a beer bottle is no way to save on
human suffering or the virtues of marriage.
I love the movie Big Fish. Ewan Macgregor
standing in a field of yellow daffodils which
is something I long to do for whatever scent
they give off is sure to rid me of any wish
to be understood. Notice I didn’t mention
Wordsworth who was a great lover of daffodils
turning into the canon? Quit all this nonsense
and buy the Early Bird Special says the diner’s
billboard. My highlight reel keeps me up all
night. Yesterday banishes me. The past either
tucks you in at bed-time, or beats you in the woods
with a phone book. Loss is more than bruises.
A handful of syllables. Our prophets auto-tune
insipid pop songs as we enter this next round
of extinction. I rent my memoirs by the hour,
but tomorrow is still a work in progress. Even
when there are no words, I mumble a few ifs
to keep me going until the next sea-change.
Already the little black box of consciousness
is readying itself for some crash landing. Wait
for the heart to uncross itself. I believed in
immortality until the sky gaslighted me with
arguments of rain. When shall we meet again?
I’ll be inventorying olive trees and butterflies,
standing in a field of daffodils waiting for you.
I’ll be here until beauty changes the locks.
By Chris Banks