is cement dead?
i mean if you put a slab of it under a microscope, is there all that crazy dancing of cells and protons and what not? squash is on special today. it always is this time of year. i could buy some, maybe a butternut squash, and chop it into cubes and freeze and store silo it for a winter december soup to be, but fuck it! the cement streets and sidewalks are everywhere and i can’t hear what the birds are trying to tell us. are they trying to tell us something? probably more than the nightly news anyway. i should do what the doctor says and breathe, stretch, exercise, and read, but i’ll drink some wine instead and think about old Hopi days and maybe get a little closer to what’s underneath the cement and then it will maybe feel more like today.
is cement dead?
my uncle tried to learn one new word every day.
he said it was the little university he imposed on himself,
to keep his brain cylinders spinning,
maybe to offset the onset of a stroke?
unfortunately, he didn’t live forever.
he didn’t even make it to 85 and the last few years, he couldn’t do much.
most of his mental faculties broke down.
i looked up the word catenary yesterday.
I thought of my uncle as I did it.
catenary – “a wire, rope, or chain hanging freely from two points and forming a U shape.”
i thought about a horseshoe and then at dinner,
i shaped a pasta strand into a U-shape and felt younger.
i looked up which is not something i always do
and there they were,
21 pigeons across a telephone wire
heads tucked into their bodies,
perfectly still and silent,
i looked down and
there it was,
a worm squirming its way through blades of wet grass,
then a crossing guard waving his hands,
a dog’s nose in quivering madness,
me counting pigeons docked on a wire,
the earth spinning
everything and everyone spinning,
in perfect meditation.
a cow sits in parlor recline
waving its tail like a drunk antennae
it has a bell around its neck.
i think of the cheese and milk and music it makes
what a wonderful relative!
arriving back home in my personality,
i stumbled on a blue spruce and a golden yellow oak.
i mumbled a few political parties and preferences.
they didn’t say anything, but that said a lot.
i sat down beside them and relaxed.
no one tags leaves to know when they fall,
but sometimes i get lucky and
there i am,
walking among the bombardment and swirl of sudden leaves
as our yesterdays die,
with only snow and its golden blanket of sleep to follow,
like a drunk, face-first on the cement, sound asleep,
a toddler doing the same, atop his stroller throne.
the mailbox sits there,
staked to the earth
wearing its look of stagecoach triumph,
filled with letters of endless dreams
we can still be a letter writing universe?