To women in the wind

To women in the wind

I see you walking through the city

Sometimes you put your little hand in mine
and I put my palm behind your shoulder
and we move together for a few bars

Otherwise I never touch you
but only see you and think
oh please marry me
oh please be my wife my editor my little girl

Because a man needs someone to push against
someone to contain and redirect his seething cauldron

Not everything that pops into his heart his mind his gut his loins his fire
is a good idea

He needs his baby
to border him delimit him
prune him emend him
help him be himself better

But these men we’ve become
grown as we have like the tree around and through a chainlink fence
cut and disfigured in the core
they seem even more ramshackle and precarious than men always seem

Men are the worst
Their strength is violent and foolish
Their beauty is violent and foolish
Their love is violent and foolish
They are greedy with their bodies and like to keep their minds/hearts turned off so they can better feed their greed

A man needs a wife
or at least a friend who loves him beyond his violent foolish greed, and who he loves beyond his violent foolish greed — a friend who loves him enough to tell him to cool it, and who he loves enough to listen to

I have seen all these men
steal all these worlds
disappoint all their girls
oink and root and squeal in their pens

What would you, woman?
Where would you, honey?
Please if you could bind, baby doll, what’s better in me to what’s better in you, what’s wiser in me to what’s wiser in you

If you please, woman, could we reroute what feels like everything?
Because it isn’t everything, it’s just a part of human life
And if it found a friend
and they together reached a safe place
then they together
could dissolve the myths that passions weave themselves
and could be together for real
and together remember
what is Real

How does a man know where to lay his head?

The son of man has no place to lay his head, but we aren’t so world-historic
We’re fruit flies flitting desperately from rot-winnowed apple to gangrened peach
We’re fruit flies rushing maniacally from generation to generation
We’re fruit flies swarming the old fruit now tossed into the garbage bag now sealed in the garbage bag
What do we care? A garbage bag has enough oxygen and food for a hundred generations of mindless little fruit flies

How does a man know whose lap to rest his weary head upon?
And how does a woman know whose head to accept upon her lap as she, tulip butt upon the mossy ground, leans against the rough bark of an old oak in the woods where the creek bends and no one bothers two souls who’ve stepped for a moment out of time, out of space, out of the coming and going of fruit fly generations

Surely God
we’re not just fruit flies
Surely God
we humans have such wide conscious spaces
that we bridge the soul and the mundane
Surely God
we humans can do better or worse
in a way fruit flies just can’t
What could a fruit fly moral victory possibly look like?
What parameters might they be aware of?
And the Love shining through everything shines how well through conscious moments so tiny in space and time as to be scarcely present at all?
We’re not fruit flies
and we need each other
and I need my woman
before I go crazy
but what does that mean?
why do people end up together?
what is the system?

Author: Job Merrifolk, Artist in Residence of the Winding Staircase in the Old Stone Tower by the Old Stone Bridge over the Forgotten River within the Shady Glen
Production: Amble Whistletown, Director of Internal and External Loneliness at the Institute for Slowly Growing Older as the sun sets within the clank of more and ever more building projects and less and ever less youth there in the little town with a creek a Main Street an elementary and a high school some churches two bars that served only domestic pilsners and whiskies a couple restaurants that your mother thought were not really clean enough to take her kids to lots of parks the creek was wide like a river crawdads in mudbanks shale cliffs and wooded areas along the banks
Editor: Bartleby Willard, great author who never existed, self-told tale that lost the thread and stopped paying attention to his own narrative of his own self
Copyright: Andrew Mackenzie Watson, person I used to be, now a legal entity who holds copyrights and opens bank accounts, who has credit cards and a picture IDs, who becomes documents in the river of documents in the sludge of information in the bureaucratic stories we back-up on servers and hope to never lose because then it would just be chaos everywhere

What does it all mean?
Except that I’m tired
so tired
of being alone
of failing at the project

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