Nordwand

 

Nordwand (North Face) 30 x 40 cm gouache on paper by Karin Goeppert

WHAT I REALLY NEED AND I MEAN YESTERDAY

                                                                 

                                                      In the myth that inspires Schulz’s writings

                                                      individuality is a type of theatrical display,

                                                      in which matter assumes a temporary role—

                                                      a human, a cockroach—and moves on.

                                                                                   John Gray

Who knows

maybe we are machines

but today I feel like an animal.

No need for an oil change, or spare

parts found in an old shed in some

grease monkey’s disused back yard.

The sensations I feel are of being

swollen up slightly in parts and sweaty all over,

loose-limbed, a tingling impatience. I might even   

be on the cusp of a sustained bout of warm-

blooded well-being. Like the hawk I once saw

mounted atop a hyperventilating

pigeon. Of course I could as easily  

be the pigeon in this scenario, slowly lifting

off in a predator’s talons. Or the silver fox some skeptics    

don’t believe I encountered one winter   

day in a city park but I did. I don’t have a chip

on my shoulder so much as a diving board, an

observation platform on Mars. It might take some time

to snap out of it. Then back to the tax return,

weekend shopping list, an evening of Sibelius.

Until then however what I really need

and I mean yesterday is something

physical to occur and as expe-

ditiously as possible. Someone to drop a

piece of meat on my plate—an incredible

Venetian girl, say, in a dirndl as the meat dropper, a diploma

in Primal Poetry framed and mounted, alas, on a wall

of her boyfriend’s mixed martial arts dojo

just above his rolled-up yoga mat, one of those

it just ain’t gonna happen situations, etc.

What does a machine snack on at three in the morning,

slit-eyed in the fridge light, claws of anxiety

gently tearing its psyche into edible bits, tomorrow

already today? Does it prefer

Matisse to Picasso? Proust to Joyce? Although not a vibrator

has it ever touched its lover with a vibrating hand?

Has it ever felt the pain of her absence? I mean become the pain,

so that its chest (or equivalent) is like the floor at Grand Central, 8 am?