Coming around a bend on the sunny afternoon asphalt you’ll find a bee-keeper, dressed in his bee-keeping vestments, tending leisurely the crooked white bee towers amidst a cloud of lazy spring bees.
The moon prowls over the streets like a bored insomniac. But you do not prowl, you lie awake in an empty bed. Oscar winner Matthew McConaughey sleeps every night like an inebriated bear so why is it so hard for you?
Bewaring the ides of March after the ides is past is just the sort of thing your horoscope writer should advise. Sometimes the past’s not much more fixed than the future is.
You’ve seen the golden beaches under the Big Sur and walked the hot boulevards down in the valley but none of it amounts to much in the teeth of this kind of light. Even the snowpacked street glimmers electrically. We do not want to die, as the philosopher says, because we are too much in love with the phenomenology of the lit world.
In the coffeeshop where you write your poems a beautiful stranger will appear as if from nowhere and completely trash your dignity and poetic sensibility.
Your hipster comes packaged with a pre-programmed platitude subversion module. For example: “Identity is a myth,” he’ll say, winking, in the falafel store. “Everyone is the same.”
You, whose dog has run away to sing with the wolves, should not feel so entirely betrayed, nor should you hunt the woods calling his name, or post his picture in the paper, nor leave the door open should he return some damp evening soon, for he has already been eaten.