What will it be like on the day when
the paint peels off and only strangeness remains?
Will the walls crumble or melt or something else?
The edifice that comes down is hauled away
like a child’s outgrown toys.
Travelers say there’s a brightness, a signaling.
But not turned on by the light,
I’ve always known the Big Deal was there.
Nobody has to die for that.
But what I want to know —
if I was Leonard Cohen, I’d claim
it’s the only thing I want to know —
what I want to know is where I can find you,
among the uncountable unknowns.
Is the entourage larger for a loner committed
to serial friendships? Depends, I bet,
on how many left the party early.
How adaptable are our minds
when not as jammed with stuff? The stuff, really,
made up and defined a universe. That gone,
how does anyone, their edifice in ruins,
figure out what’s what? Who’s who?
Oh, yeah, I forgot. We get guides.
Projections of some kind, holographic maybe,
emerge from an intermediate background,
acting as ushers, easing our passage.
Now, there is just no way I see you as an usher.
More likely, my brother will embrace whatever I am
in a hug like he eschewed at the party.
Smart, generous, funny, a great guide.
If there’s a choice, he’s it.
It seems to me we get a crash course
in language, geography and mathematics
fit to the spanking new universe. Just thinking
about it makes me sad for the one abandoned.
“Not ready yet,” I assume you’ll tell me, or
I wouldn’t feel such a tug. Work to be done,
chip, chip, back in the shop, contributions
still to be made. Wait your turn. Etc.
But how many must I watch depart
before I take off my own overcoat and go? The whole miserable thing,
the losses, the extractions, the whole fucking awareness
that each departure is an opportunity lost.
You can’t take a tactical position anymore. You’re style
is rendered useless in the loss of each succeeding
partner. Which frankly brings us to you.
All I really know is that the walls will come down,
the paint will peel off, the roof collapse. All toys and
cherished possessions will be like landfill.
What remains is what always was and will be.
Then, if there’s any justice in any heaven,
I will see you, I will see all of you.
I can’t imagine what we’ll do, absent the party.
I have no insight into what we will do,
the party over, the wheels off, the paint melted,
the roof collapsed, every toy banished.
Maybe we were closer than we thought
with all that talking, heaven being
a vast communication center, us the most practiced.
But I don’t know. Sometimes, of course,
I have that clearly confusing awareness
of connections buzzing and bopping
in a language I don’t understand. Excuse me, Gertrude,
but there is certainly a there there.
Buzzing, humming, bubbling in Swahili
or it might as well be for all I understand, or
is just knowing it’s there enough?
Is that all you get? Is that the news of the hour?
You get to know the whole coruscating edifice
is there, but not shit from Shinola what it’s about?
Sorry I asked. I won’t settle for that. I want
to see you now, not later, to appreciate my brother’s
humor, my mother’s gypsy spirit, my dad’s penetrating
stare into something frightfully like a void.
I will see you later, but you can never stop me
from seeing you now, as the party empties before me,
the wheels come off, the paint melts, the walls erode,
the sky falls. It offends the legacy
to let it go too easy.