1,951 Readings

Meditation at Ripton

The scenery clubs you as soon as you step outside—

You watch a breeze open the grass.

You notice some this-type shit and some
that-type shit.

You take to heart some un-take-to-heart-ables.

You can do anything; so why can’t you?

The stars come out only the 8,787th time, but it feels like the limit
as umpteenth goes to infinity—mood
dumps into mood dumps into mood like some kind of
martini-in-progress, while the white firework
of the cosmos hangs on as burst embers—
and in front of the stars, the real fireworks,
and at the eye-lens, the real fireworks, and
behind that, the real fireworks…

Create a line of sneakers called Will You Marry Me;
every couple at the height of devotion is a free advertisement.

You enter the caution-tape zones of her body
and you fuck in a style that is classic, but also modern;
that’s how a good shoe should look, too.

A fly lands on my knee and I crush it
with my other knee.

Skull with the beard
still on it.

The temperature dupes the trees into dying a month early.
I don’t want to be duped into death,
I want the full throttle throttle.
I love how the foliage seems to say,
“Good god! I’m burning!” with
such dignity. Yellow, red:
I want to go insane
before my mulch era.

I want to be a ray of sun that zips over
92 million miles towards your head at
670 million miles per hour only
to be deflected in the final meter
by an inch-wide leaf. Oof!
Well if that’s not disappointment,
sitting here in the shade of it all.

You spend such time away from home that it isn’t,
tossing pennies down a wishing well to get
rid of their annoying jangle—
a modest wish that’s immediately granted.

If bees were monogamous, we’d
lose entire species of flowers
to their dry-hump abstention—
is that what you want? Like the bee,
I am always making love
to what I think is a female
of my own species only to find out
they’re actually a beautiful, delicate flower.
We’ve all felt like that. We’ve all gone flat
and limey in the sediment of history, the quarry—
a phyllo flake in the baklava of time.

I watch the small plastic sack of a beetle trap
fill with beetles—what are the plastic sacks
I’ve fallen into? What is the bright yellow
aromatic top to the sack of sadness?
Debt? Disease? Solitude?

The spirit pilots you
like a lancet fluke pilots a black ant—
and you climb blade after blade to grace,
hoping to be taken by the lamb.

Posted 10/01/09
"Meditation at Ripton" first appeared in Gulf Coast Issue 21.2, Summer/Fall 2009.
Books by Brian Christian
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