I want to write an
honest sentence. My son leaves to do an honest day's work, while I
stay home to write sentences. The television splits its screen
between two dumb-faced courthouses. After one verdict, a woman in a
blue dress sprints away from one of them. We talk about persuading those who will not be persuaded. It's not logic we reach for, but a
counter-emotion to fear. The man who took beautiful photos of
our kids at the pool claimed Clinton's henchmen called him every
night to threaten his life. (I wrote “lie.”) A former student
thought there was a bug in his penis, installed by the government.
Paranoia requires system, or is it the other way? Do not disturb the
toothbrush in the cup or the place-setting at dinner. They are as
they should be present. We assume the air, the trade wind through the
palm with one dead frond, the round pot our dog digs
in, fledgling bird songs, an entire world free of twitter and white
nationalism. It no longer seems macabre to imagine my own death, but brute anticipation of fact. My dog pokes his nose into the white
cat's side. He's the cat who's 14 on one block and four on the next,
the one who comes when you call him. Orange splotch on his narrow white
face, above pellucid blue eyes. Nearing 60, I pause to watch,
scratch the cat, then turn up the hill with my dog.
---22 August 2018
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