Ah yes, the renewed reign of the one-eyed man

POETRY NOW

Poetry stinks with ten thousand poets
pissing in the same overflowing bowl.
We must go it alone, swimming at night
down the River of No Return.
At dawn we’ll see unknown animals
on the bank, and unknown women, some
without faces. We’re now sure that we
have both leprosy and gangrene, outcasts.

Jim Harrison

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Back when I used to ride wounded horses, and so much of what seemed like aspiration I would not want to pursue because of fear that it would elude me or I would fall or fail or sputter out into normalcy. I lived in a small house next to a creek, which was the house’s water supply. Shower: yes. Drink from the tap: invite giardia so no. I read a lot of Harrison out on a little bridge that spanned the creek and led to the pasture from which I could see the Pintlars. I miss those mountains. I do not miss that feeling of wanting, at least once a day, to crawl out of my skin and out of time, unreconciled.

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Time is a mystery that can tip us upside down.