Picture This: Some Days, Nothing Will Do
Some days nothing,
just nothing, will do.
I open the bathroom mirror
to get the hydrogen peroxide
to pour on the gash on the
back of the fist
I’ve pounded into the floor
in a rage. Over something, it’s
not important. Except, of course,
it is. So, I try and sit and
cool and chill and all that.
An hour passes, the grimace
that was my face I began with
and I am almost human
again. But what is human?
And what’s the point? My pat answer:
The point is to get to the point
where you no longer feel the need
to ask: ‘What’s the point?’ Yet
the older I get, the more I think
this misses the point and is just
words. So, I whistle past the
graveyard where monks sit
mindfully in charnel grounds,
meditating on the bones of what
used to be a human.
And pause to uncouple from
all this aggression, this angst. You
can tell how well I’m doing with this
by the band-aids on my fists. The
world is a mess because we are. So,
it must follow: the reverse can be true.
If we are not a mess than our
world will not be so. It’s certainly
something to un-think about.
Meanwhile, at the Goodwill,
where I go to toss all the extra stuff
in a life jammed full of it,
someone has tossed the Holy Bible.
Don’t take offense at my
photo, for it is what I saw
should it be the book of your life.
Me, I ruffle the fur of my here-and-now
evangelists on the bed with my
bandaged hand. Read instead the
holy script of yellow flower and purple
paint. And the scripture of a tree.
Photos by Douglas Imbrogno. Click to enlarge
~ An After-dark Walking tour of Huntington, WV
~ Insomnia Album: Pictures for the Pre-Wee Hours
~ Poems Without a Book
~ Six Variations on a Curve in the Road
~ Some Days, Nothing Will Do
~ Still Life with Lines, Leaf and Water
~ Excruciating Pain Report
~ I Got Nuts, Beef, Candy
~ Blue Rooms