auld lang syne

Is it a looking-back? Or a looking-forward? Does the calendar turn if the Times Square ball doesn't drop? At the prick of midnight, the nadir of one year, the apex of the new, that is, the apex before the apex before the start. 00:00. 12:00. The exquisite edge, ultimate cliff, razor-tip Now, never to be repeated, never new again, but now in Now, of Now, for Now, is Now.

Midyuletidemonday

What should we call this interregnum of a day, this diurnal hiatus between years, between nativity and epiphany, birth and discovery, between darkness and satori, this timely peninsula of gray waiting, quotidian quiddity? 

Midyuletidemonday?

increasingly disappearing

oxymoron of love or whatever you call it Leonard Cohen called it room service to disappear increasingly meaning the apex of detachment the antithesis of attachment currying favor with the healthy self opposite the poisonous spice of obsequious pandering apposite the embrace of fullness of time other side of waning decrease withering wallowing Joyce is dead nobody does this crap anymore this fancy tapdance this diamond studded diversion increasingly disappearing into equanimity tempered balance buoyant serenity unfathomable steadiness floating oceans of oh-my-this  

'Eskimo Blue Day' True Day

. . . The human name
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .

 . . . But the human crowd
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .

. . . The human dream
Doesn't mean shit to a tree . . .
 
"Eskimo Blue Day," Jefferson Airplane
 Grace Slick, Paul Kantner 1969

Be careful there. What's that? Easy now. Careful. Watch out. What is that? That's sharp. Careful! You're gonna hurt someone. It's dangerous. What the hell are you doing? Stop! That hurts! Please. What did I ever do to you? Who do you think you are? Don't. I'm begging you. Stop! That's excruciating. I'm warning you. Pleading. Ouch. This is unbearable. You're killing me. Where do you get off . . . 

missing

I got off the bus at West Genesee and West Fayette. A young mother with a toddler and an infant in a stroller struggled to navigate the steps down onto the sidewalk. I let them go and did my best neither to feel nor exude impatience. I stepped onto the sidewalk buffeted by a blast of December wind. Something on the ancient, rutted utility pole caught my eye. What? A Missing Persons poster was stapled on two sides of the pole. I moved closer. There, to my shock and horror, was an unmistakable image of me, under large block letters spelling MISSING with an exclamation point (fortunately, only one instead of the customary three). Below that was a photo of me in my Icelandic sweater, bought in Reykjavik in January 2016. It happens to be one of my favorite self images. My older glasses are bolder, my hair is longer and less gray, and I sport a sexy smirk, or so I've been told. So thanks for that. Anchoring the bottom of the poster "$5,000 Reward" is offered. How is that amount calculated? Is it based on the poster's (as in "one who posts") resources or my putative value? My name is provided. It is spelled correctly, with no middle initial. No information regarding age, reason for missinghood, potential danger to self or others is offered. The only other data provided is that I was last seen at the Solvay Post Office. Last seen, wait for it, today. Today? Is somebody trying to tell me something and what is it? I shook this off, having lingered for who knows how long at the corner absorbing all this. I proceeded west on Fayette toward home. Every utility pole, all eight, had two missing posters stapled onto it. Just me. Nobody else. I kept walking. Evening was descending, as it does so early in December. I quickened my pace. I keenly looked left and right, searching for something or someone, I didn't know what. At the end of the block, I paused and looked in back of me, where I had just traversed. Nothing. I turned left onto Williams Street, toward my apartment building. I decided I would not enter by the main door, at the lobby with the mailboxes. I somehow felt safer entering by the seldom-used back door. As I walked down the six steps to the door, key fob in hand, i halted. Another one on the door. I could have turned away. Turned away to go where? I summoned either courage or foolhardiness, waved the fob, and entered. now my heart was racing. I was sweating. I walked up the stairs to the third floor. I gingerly, and as quietly as I could, strode to apartment 312. Another poster.

3 hardest words

I was wrong
you were right
we were wrong
they were right
I guessed wrong
thought I knew
had it figured
assumed it was
love or hate
hate or love
won't you try
try I did
we found out
maybe next time
no next time
time passes quickly
long story short
short story shorter
you and me
you and I
we three kings
you three queens
paper or plastic
not like that
is it real
is it over
I feel fine
stop right here

couldn't

tie my shoes
blow bubblegum bubbles
ride a bike
float
lose my virginity
or anyone else's
get sober
behave
not say it
say it
be celibate
stay married
remarry
divorce
stay divorced
lie

and then I could