Hope Is A Ghost

Today, I would like to build a lotus of anarchy. It should be easy. But it won’t let me. I’ve tried everything, including analogies drawn from the savagery of expectation. The prepositions scrape against one another creating Buddhism. Here he comes again: the ghost of Bob Hope. Why Bob Hope? I was more of a Bill Hicks fan. And I love Maria Bamford. Who remains very much alive. This is where refined sensibilities step away quietly and stand on the porch and listen to the rain. Another steel beam is added to the lotus, which looks down and laughs. And no, it’s not a real lotus. Nor is it a UFO. It feels unaccountable, like TV. Life is an enigma. No one knows what it is, where it comes from, what to do with it. A bunch of syntax rolls toward the end of the sentence and explodes into pronouns. I hear someone singing. The smell of desire rolls over us like a handful of fingers making pizza deliveries. Which reminds me. I’d like to tour Sardinia one day. History creates so many unrealities we need candy to remind us of what’s truly important, what is substantial from what is fiction. The staircase hugs its shape, step by step. Who is that coming down to greet us? Is it Mr. Hope? Have you ever met someone so vaporous you could slide your hand through them? Life is hard enough without making things more difficult, and & yet it is certain crazy emergencies that surge up & down our spines will sometimes create a willingness to experience life. And sigh. Yesterday there was a fly in the window. I couldn’t hear a word it said. It was engrossed on getting out. Welcome. Welcome my friend to Planet Earth. Give a big kiss to Missouri. The idea that anything can happen is exhilarating. All the borders are imaginary and all the rivers are stories. We see Prince waiting for a prescription, riding a mountain bike in a Minneapolis parking lot. Let’s drop anchor right here. I want to see what’s really out there. Autumn gleefully does its thing, falling off of the trees and destroying any pretense to the meaning of summer, which has failed us once again. The train goes by. The poem picks up on it and glories in the clickety-clack of alliteration. Here it is: the lotus at last. It looks like a Bolshevik wearing a bolo tie. Nothing ever turns out the way we expect it. So go ahead. Make something up. Who’s going to know the difference?  Besides Bob.