We entertain ourselves

11/19/2021 0 By BuddyCushman

I feel compelled, early here this Friday morning – earlier even than opened blinds – to write in poetry – paragraphs of poetry as my best way to love the world in mid-November. The fact my car is broken by the repair shop. The fact I don’t pay for Match.com. The fact these days there’s an onslaught of talking to myself. The fact I didn’t remember Thanksgiving. The fact Oregon wants to give me free money. The fact I’m recently obsessed with “MacArthur Park” – “Someone left the cake out in the rain.” The fact life allows big heart changes. The fact the bag lady ignores my bag. The fact I’ll be gruesome in “Buy my book” beggings. The fact San Marcos kids model for all of us. The fact wifi ain’t always there. The fact boogie boards languish lonely in my laminated lettuce. Yes, the fact I’ll never have that recipe again.

It’s how I am here, surface barely scratched, up this hill – San Diego.

And readership dwindles and money multiplies and opportunities are obvious and time sheets can be emailed and the sweet green icing is flowing down – and not only can I think it, I get to ask you to think it.

All’s well in Golden Hill. All’s well in Encinitas. All’s well in Orleans on the Cape. All’s well at Papaccino’s in Portland. All’s well in my acrylic paint box. All’s well with the poems at hand. All’s well with banished Twitter. All’s well in worn walking shoes – means all’s well in Lawrence, Massachusetts (we can hope).

When I dream I’m my best. Over on my side of the street I’m my best. In holy white tank tops I’m my best. Yearning for Ocean Beach I’m my best. Mailing kind mail I’m my best. Here’s one – drinking coffee in the pre-dawn dark I’m my best.

Now what? Now who? Now when? Now why? And I’m left to wonder if legacy even applies. If boxes of books even count. I’m left to wonder if humans will call, mouths filled with turkey, only to say, “We got you, kid.” I’d say sorrow tries to push its way in damn near all the time, it could be in disguise. But my shiny suit of hopeful armor giggles, “No way, Bro.” And I’m left to carry on, with pen and paper and too much lead in my pencils (that’s a koan). Left with packages in the wind and amazing trees to admire and coffee to order and Christmas to consider and channels to stream and sea walls to sit on and photos only I’ll ever see and Pages in the morning waiting on a used desk – I hear them whisper, “Over here.”

And a cat who said, “No sense makes sense.”