What if purpose were water, & in a desert of stark nihilism you had to dig deep to find purpose? There would have to be a purpose to the search for purpose. But is water a good comparison? No one can live without water. But you can live without purpose. I don’t know what to compare purpose to. What is it that transmits the energy of a car engine to the rear wheels? Power is transmitted from the engine through the clutch & the gearbox to the rear axle by means of a propeller shaft. In this context, purpose would appear to be the propeller shaft. Or would purpose be gasoline? Derricks in Texas bringing up purpose, which fuels the big truck of ambition. Which is a figure of speech. A trope. With tread. But the actuality differs. Last time I drove a truck there was little ambition involved. I was delivering blood. Which meant it had tor reach its destination at a certain time, or go bad. And somebody loses out, in a big way. Literally, a life or death matter. I got to the real steep hill on Cherry, headed to Harborview, and worried – since this was a stick shift – if I would get the clutch out in time. I did. And felt relief. And delivered the blood and went home. Ambition requires you go in a certain direction, with great aggression. That’s not how I operate. Not in the poetry business. Poetry is all about diversion. Aberration. Divagation. Deviation. I love deviation. I like to go in one direction and then when I least expect it allow something to carry my attention elsewhere. You have to make a path. A compass helps. But if you don’t have a compass follow the moon. The moon will take you somewhere new & interesting. Junkyard of fascinating abstract principles no one uses anymore. Car axles & open-ended coincidences. Or maybe a greasy diner out of an old Twilight Zone episode. James Dean smiles behind the counter because someone just told him a good joke and the coffee is good. And what is the purpose of a joke? You have to look hard to see the real purpose in things. You can do this in language. It provides guitars and mutation. Imagination does the rest. See? The words are smiling at you. Coyly. Like the sex workers on Aurora. Therefore, I have forged a kimono for you. This is a teachable moment. Let’s not let it go to waste. All I need is the air that I breathe and to love you. I want to be a song in your jukebox. I will season it with mushrooms and sing like a skeleton. It will sound like a universe descending from your eyes as you read this sentence. Open the drawer. You will find a shirt with forty buttons and a collar big as Pakistan. Put it on. Now go. Let me sleep. Take this candle. Hold it gently. And light it with your mind.
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