You live in Is but think in Was. To Be has become something of a joke, a narrow corridor with doors at the end opening on to a bone-yard.
Was isn't, but you may pretend it is. What is consciousness besides memory?
Details fatigue: a gray sparrow on white gravel in what was East Berlin; a sauna full of nude, genial people in Uppsala; a red bloody torn lip in Sacramento; a coiled rattlesnake beneath honey-smelling brush, Sierra Nevada.
To live in Is is to complete tasks and then wait. Boredom and fear compose ennui, a cold French stew.
Politics numbs because it's corrupt, often evil, but also deadly boring. Deadly.
You wonder where Lew Welch's remains ended up, the .30-.30 rifle next to them in some Sierra Nevada ravine, not far from the South Fork of the Yuba River. Was he wearing Levi's with red thread? Lew's move is not a move you want to imitate, but it was a move. Was. Somebody will stumble on a bone or two.Will.
Not so with Weldon Kees, the car left on the red Golden Gate Bridge, the gray current below, so terribly efficient--like life itself. Play us some going-home music, Mr. Kees. A great chord on a golden piano.
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