Blue Tyger Magazine poem NOthing To Do with Zen William J. Gibson

- William J. Gibson -

This poem has nothing to do with Richard Brautigan

After the rain fell for a year
I began to notice puddles were nothing new.
You told me I would begin to realize these things.
I was feeling the great ache. A new version.
Upgradable to wisdom for a price.

Pray for us now and all the hours
until we reach a safe place.
The cat knows what that is.
When did I lose my last molecule of patience.
The snow was trying to be rain
And failing against my windshield.

we use words
to dissect our experience,
put distance and padding and forgetfulness
between ourselves and the present. We know.
We spent time figuring out the past —
     the outcome tax calculation
              the night before the filing deadline.
Counting. The annual
comedy fest evolves curiously.
You know what I mean.

A gurgle and a giggle and the pushing rush of all that
turned inside out
like your sweater that you rushed
to pull off,
the miracle of that everyday magic trick.
Strong hands and patient eyes.

And when the sun goes out
like an old light bulb when you switch it and it says gone
in a joke without a punch line. .
You nod like an old soldier in the front
     of an old fire    in an old chair
and the kitten attacks the dancing
fire flickers   on the black tile     before the fireplace
       in a home you knew.

So many obstacles, none of them
    created by anyone else.
Must be elves, no
          and not escaped midgets from the circus.
All my work.
    It is only love.
It is only joy and another roll
through the car wash for souls.
I have a coupon for two.

main Issue 37 : January 2008 POEMS Scrape Valentine's Day Dream Dissection Station Nothing to do with Zen The Snow is Too Damned White BOOKS The Night Blitz, by John Ray Max Hastings Armageddon and Nemesis PREVIOUS ISSUE Index to back issues chronologically by subject contents Copyright © 2008 William J. Gibson	Nothing to do with Zen - William J. Gibson - This poem has nothing to do with Richard Brautigan After the rain fell for a year I began to notice puddles were nothing new. You told me I would begin to realize these things. I was feeling the great ache. A new version. Upgradable to wisdom for a price. Pray for us now and all the hours until we reach a safe place. The cat knows what that is. When did I lose my last molecule of patience. The snow was trying to be rain And failing against my windshield. we use words to dissect our experience, put distance and padding and forgetfulness between ourselves and the present. We know. We spent time figuring out the past — the outcome tax calculation the night before the filing deadline. Counting. The annual comedy fest evolves curiously. You know what I mean. A gurgle and a giggle and the pushing rush of all that turned inside out like your sweater that you rushed to pull off, the miracle of that everyday magic trick. Strong hands and patient eyes. And when the sun goes out like an old light bulb when you switch it and it says gone in a joke without a punch line. . You nod like an old soldier in the front of an old fire in an old chair and the kitten attacks the dancing fire flickers on the black tile before the fireplace in a home you knew. So many obstacles, none of them created by anyone else. Must be elves, no and not escaped midgets from the circus. All my work. It is only love. It is only joy and another roll through the car wash for souls. I have a coupon for two.