Texts to Sarah across the river

image curtesy of The Public Domain Review

by Jeffrey Skinner

Feeble wind, speak up.  I am not the I am.  Important to note.  Work, for night is coming.  And pick up eggs on the way home, pls.  About your losses.  Have you looked in the space between tic and tock?  I lost a few years there, once.  FOFL.  James Wright taught me rivers.  Everyone should call him James, I think.  Formal sadness.  Wonder if the signal between us is fresh?  Kind of mid, maybe?  The river’s a slow learner.  Churner. 

Sometimes the moon, alone, in its hammock: so slay, just slay!   Or, fog snaking around the mountain.  And through the valley, just over the river.  Or N.Y.C. at dawn, garbage truck hydraulics, cup of Greek coffee, taxi’s sudden yellow on gray.  I think no reading tonight, movie?  HBU?  Also, I heard what’s coming up may be the big one.  But they always say that.  No cap!  I know.  When you come, if you come . . .  Well, pls do.  I was young in the day, Europe itself a lad.  Jetz nicht mehr!  Hold on, hold on, I am getting to something.  Oh yeah, what?  Hold on. 

What a walking DSM.  I got a slight case of every mental illness.  I’m just joshing.  At least I believe.  Couldn’t otherwise continue.  What if it’s all repetition, the exit blocked?   You silly goose!  Still hoping for those eggs we talked abt.  I’d go to Montauk when it was just boarding house and dune grass.  Those days.  And they certainly were.  Tall, chock full of sex, palace intrigue.  Endless, really.  Or nearly.  You weren’t there yet.  Wait, I mean: here.  In my distress I cried unto the Lord.  Now, you give me a quote.  We could go on like this and have.  But not here, not forever.  That’s elsewhere. 

Sometimes I wake from sleep and look around.  Consciousness creates.  Matter out of the insubstantial, not the other way.  Alfred North Whitehead.  Listen, take your meds and be grateful.  That’s my self-advice.  That’s my doctorate.  Or, see if you can jimmy the lock.  That might be where you left it, in your frustration.  I lost my car keys walking the dog.  Found them two weeks later, placed carefully on a picnic table.  Kindness persists.  But, who to thank?  That’s the question. 

Listen, come back across the river, or I will come to you.  We’ll play James Wright via Heathcliff and Kathy.   The board game of non-acceptance, ultimate edition.  Transcendence within imminence.  Love crossing over.  I get it, I get it.  Truly.  But, can anyone be sure?  Where then is my hope, can anyone find it?  Maybe out back, behind the barn.  Maybe a few years or minutes ago, under the millennia rug.  Let’s wish each other good hunting.  I’ll put up the flag, scramble the eggs.  Wait for the meal of your return. 

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