My folks are here and tomorrow we will celebrate my Mom’s birthday. So, I’m trying to do this quickly, and freely, so I can go visit with them, but it seems like the harder I try to make a poem happen, the harder it is. Tomorrow I will try to write a birthday poem for her, but I need more time to come up with something really good.
Lots of people don’t really like their birthday. I didn’t, for awhile, before I realized how dumb that is. We make aging such a negative thing in this country. It’s super lame. On my birthday this year I’ll write a poem and the gist of it will be “HAPPY FRICKIN BIRTHDAY! YOU SURVIVED ANOTHER YEAR OF THIS WEIRDO LIFE! HUZZAH! YOU ARE SO MUCH WISER NOW”. And it will be true, so I will eat cake.
I’ve been daydreaming about an entire civilization that collapses because no one listens to the stories of the old any longer, so I guess I’ll try to poem about that and then go hang out with my parents.
Age of Aphasia
the Weakening of the ties that stretched across years began when we stopped listening to the stories of their old. Sometimes the stories took too long to tell, sometimes they fell asleep during the telling, sometimes they lost track of the moral, often they’d been told before, sometimes we tweeted the good parts and then left with a kiss on folded jowl. Somehow they’d stopped moving, when the domiciles shrank in sense of duty and respect, and it was decided that the storytellers would most enjoy telling their stories amongst themselves. At first the yarns weren’t missed, nor were the tale tales of fish, of marriage, of affairs, of lessons learned The Hard Way. So often many of them would wander down unfamiliar alleyways, in search of forgotten homes, always, always on the way home. And meeting them at the next street over, their dirty pajama legs dragging in the mud, slippers dew-soaked and dangerous, we would go to speak to them and realize no, no, we are the lost ones, the right words right on the tip of the tongue stopping up the throat, grasping, fingertips tremoring, unable to recall what we have to say to one another, and we are each unhoused.
This is a day without lessons. The gravity takes too long to relate, and we’ve been so long without our hearing. No devices can fine-tune our deaf ears and blind hearts, No tidings or sound advice can unstop their voices now, in this the Age of Aphasia, in our businesswear, cloaked in shame for throwing away our dead long before they die.
so, that wasn’t really the dreamy piece about the fall of civilization and got rather preachy toward the end. More on that subject later. Now I have to go join the conversation. Happy Friday!