Life is a series of decisions to move this poster to another room; that ass to some other chair.There isn’t really much to it, and then we’re done for.
There was a time I wrote, seriously, about grief. I wonder whyI can’t do that anymore.
Maybe it’s because I don’t have any specific datum point. No assumed coordinates where there’s a road,snowy or muddy or something else entirely, and I’m not driving on it.
But I like to consider it. Think about it. Reminisce about its simple bumps and startling gravel.
In 27 years, I’ll be retired.
Just kidding, I’m never going to be able to retire. Or I’ll be dead long before that.Or maybe that’s you? I don’t really know.
What was I talking about again? Oh yes, decisions.
Decision has a fascinating etymology: from the…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, March/April 2024