We read Jane Kenyon’s “Having it Out with Melancholy.” The original prompt was to explore conflict with an emotion, but Donald brought up the idea of the interplay between imagination and memory, so we wrote on either topic.
Where do they go when not in use
Somehow fast/slow, mostly duck abuse
The latter has strength while the
former grows old
In their house, they trade seats then
slide down the bench
Because of all the chatter and space
between the former/the latter none took
the matter for gold
They must be sister/brother
so told the former two the latter, same
home, same mother
That Space between Imagination and Memory
Full speed ahead, warp ten.
Watch out for my cell phone, or I’ll call everyone you don’t want to call.
Rest is the space between what you think of and what you know.
To not contemplate the beginnings is to complicate the endings.
I don’t know what this means, and I definitely know what this does.
Concrete answers are the stuff of losers.
Why does everything have to rise, and rise, and rise, and rise like a goddamn symphony?
Why can’t we be satisfied with the simple things and angered at the comprehension of reason?
Meh. Not black, not white, but gray in the middle.
The above is all God ever wanted us to know.
Vacations are for babysitters, the total angst of which is unknown.
Why we reason certain things and ignore certain others is beyond me.
Why we memorize certain things and ignore others is beyond me.
Those who know there are no definitive answers are the cherished monks and prophets of the future.
Those who believe they have the final answer should be institutionalized forever.
Walking blindfolded is all we should ever know together.
Run for the hills, and stop for the future.
The mutation of amoebas is all we ever know.
What happens in Boston is of no concern to me.
What happens to other people is the only thing that concerns me.
Fruits and vegetables are the solution to almost all of our problems.
When you run fast
When you run fast you
think of fruit, the sections
of an orange peeled apart.
In a picture, a girl’s leg
is made of skin, you can tell
by how it’s cut. Imagine slicing
a knife into the mango
and your hands are sticky.
In Boston the streets
are red. When I run I hold
in my head a rope to cling to
when I can’t breathe. A man
is on the ground. A woman prays.
In my head a rope blisters
clear bubbles like eyes
of my palms, and I run faster.
You think of the way
an orange is so easy to pull
into parts, completely boneless
under the rind. There is still
so far to go. Between where I am
and a finish line: 20 miles of gray
with storm clouds or smoke.
Somewhere the sky is large.
There is no point to not stopping.