An Abrupt Hardening of Awareness
Two Kidney Murphy's talking rubbish
to any who'll listen. Nobody will. I'm not sure what
he's saying, he's standing in the mid-distance
and everything not proximate
and everything not remote
is muffled by the suspended sea spray
that keeps not-falling on this early morning Thursday.
In the great hollow solid between my forehead and the sun
cavort great herds of proctors, gamboling with my future,
taking odds that I won't make it out of bed, that I won't
find the ol' No. 2 in time, that short-term never became interim
never became long-term. I want memories, really, I do, I want them
to keep me company and to keep me safe and to get me moving
right now. Snap-focus.
I could do without everything being so proximate, I little bit
more remoteness, please, some spooky action at a distance
to pry some space out of the air in front of my face. It's not
that I want to hear Murphy, I don't, but suspended with him
are my brother's coat (what? a brother?) and an old pair
of tongs left by my last landlord, the last lord to grant me
a boon. I can't get to the middle-distance, I can't get back home,
I can't get the car working, I can't leave well enough alone.