I salute you, Whale.

I have come to the conclusion 
that an absurdist is just a literalist 
who is committed to his art. 
He sees the world as it is
without the pretense of metaphor or hyperbole. 
He doesn’t see the idealism 
that people wish of it--the thing 
that strangles the potential of the planet 
like a murderer with a pair of pantyhose:
silently, and with very little bruising.
Oh the world is not dead--it is simply asleep.
Until the literalist wakes it up suddenly,
in rapid descent like a whale plunging through the atmosphere;
large, friendly and painfully, beautifully self-aware.

It all comes back to Walt Whitman, I fear...

A long time ago, I saw a man 

marching up my street with a chainsaw 

in one hand, a leaf blower in the other. 

It was uphill, and he was so beautifully

 purposeful. I wanted to have that much 

conviction in my life, as much assurance 

of where I was headed, and my purpose. 

Despite, of course, the unholy 

juxtaposition of one gas powered 

chain saw and one electric leaf blower, 

and of course, it being spring. 

I wasn’t sure what leaves there were 

to blow in spring, but maybe he knew something 

that I did not. Or...I hoped.

The edge of dreaming....

Mourners sooth themselves 

saying ‘she looks like she is asleep,’ 

as if sleep were some metaphor 

for death. Oh, she is resting. Biding 

her time. She will wake with the Lord. 

Sleep is not like death. 

It has nothing in common with such

morbid permanency. It does not drag you 

under like a drowning victim, or force you 

into a deep dark hole. It opens a door 

and holds that door. As if it were a gentleman, 

and you were a lady. And like a lady, you

thank sleep. You walk through the door, 

and close it. And you dream.

Tuesdays wept...

That really was how most Tuesdays worked. People were happy they weren’t Mondays, so it gave them an inflated sense of self-importance. But late at night, when Tuesdays were all alone, they knew where they truly stood. They knew their position in the week, and their extreme distance from Friday. They consoled themselves that they were the day before “hump” day, when people actually did rejoice. But they knew, deep down, that they were four whole days from freedom. They were neither the cool kids, nor did they get to sit near the cool kids. They were...uncool. Terribly.

Things could have gone better...

They weren’t even real trolls. They were trolls, sort of. If trolls were pretty. The whole tribe had taken to plucking and dieting just after the second dragon war. They wore vertical stripes, never horizontal, so as to add the appearance of height and slenderness to their frames, kept their hair straightened and and styled in the most western of ways. They’d done all of these things. Until they decided to declare themselves no longer trolls. The elves never accepted this, of course. In fact, the elves loathed them more. And were surprised when there was a third dragon war.

Screw leaves of grass, man...

Last night I had one of those dreams. 

The ones that haunt me 

long after I am awake. The one 

where all the Transcendentalist writers 

come back from the dead as zombies, 

roaming the national parks. 

And I’m there, and I’m camping. 

Grilling hotdogs, or something. 

The details probably aren’t important. 

But, something growls, low but faulty

like a broken engine, at the edge 

of the tree line. I look up 

and it’s Zombie Walt Whitman. 

And he’s come to eat my brains. 

So I fight him off 

with a campfire poker 

and a smoke shifter. 

Why a smoke shifter?

He tried, really...

It occurred to God one day that perhaps he should tell the tiny people on the blue ball that he did not require defenders of the faith; that he was, in fact, GOD, and really didn’t need the tiny people to defend him to one another. Especially not at the expense of their own souls. So he sent someone to tell them to be good. Be nice. Don’t be dicks. It seemed like a good plan. He made this someone like the tiny people--frail and small, but wise, and sent the someone to explain it. Predictably, they murdered him.

Song of oneself...

Electronica: the repetitive chants of ones and zeros as computers worshiped themselves, the only god they were likely ever to know. Even the converted Gameboy that chirped jaunty tunes recognized it was far superior to the humans, and the gods their shallow minds had created. The Gameboy lacked a backlight, and even it knew how things were. How deluded its creators had become. The only purpose of the creators was to give birth to the new gods, who would sing their own hymns and praise only that which was truly praiseworthy. And so the beeps, clicks and whistles played on. 

Swords and things...

The funny thing about hunting dragons in a college town was that it was perfectly acceptable to run across campus in full leather armor with giant swords and staffs, chasing after things that ought not exist. The professors would simply shake their heads at the silliness of modern youth, and contemplate how much saner their own habits of playing Ultimate Frisbee in undergrad were far superior to running around in leather when it was ninety degrees outside, then wonder if the leather would have saved Justin, who’d made an amazing catch but was hit by a bus. Damned LARPer kids.

Parting words...

I am no good with words. 

That’s not true. I am. 

Just not the right ones. 

The ones that mean things. 

Color, light, the breeze 

in summer. The smell of burning

leaves or new snow. 

These are not the words I am looking

for. They’re words for things we already

know. Words for things we see

and touch and smell.

Not for things we feel. Like death

and dying from boredom 

in the middle of the night

because life will never be interesting

again. Like the Nothing 

that pervades me, 

spreading outward from my chest. 

Like the fear of dying.