my friend, you were (and i know how) a recluse and a polymorph: within a castle made of pine upon a branch within a tree of different wood than in your bones, for you were scent and reticence, a dissident, a fuzziness. and i (and you knew this) was where the ocean meets the endless sky; my head down low, my thoughts up high was all illusion, entropy -- this strange connection, made of hope and flowers, flags, and palindromes, of tractors, beds, and mobile homes.
I am pretty much always tired. I think it has to do with lack of sleep and poor diet.
Oh, and being old.
I don’t want this to be all negative: there are certain advantages to sleepwalking through life. For one thing, you don’t have to be coherent. This works out well, as I frequently am not. For another, people will mistake incoherence for wittiness. I can’t really explain this, I can just note that it happens.
[Me] When is Thursday this week?
[Them] I’m not quite sure how to answer that.
I also realized something like 9 years ago that being incomprehensible is problematic in most areas of life, unless you are either an academic or a poet. Since being a college professor seemed the more remote possibility, I chose the path of poetry. Having written as much as I have, I frequently find myself unable to remember what I was trying to say when viewing an old post.
Probably something important. Or I was just exhausted.