Here: where parents outlive children, men piss on mounds that too once walked, drank, pissed on other men.
Words stick like glue in the throat, despite recorded sightings of “in-between,” you know, like physicists see particles where most see nothing but what’s “really there.”
The ones we did not like, the laughing ones who drank us under tables — under ground now, dry-rations for creatures nourishing their young (yet more life: moist, tubular, disgusting).
The dead are gone, yet dramas persist, unsettled, round by round. For instance: the girl on the beach, no longer slim, young, pretty on the sand, compelled Yesterday to dream lubricious rumbas, roses crushed in tango teeth, around Tomorrow’s pretty young girl on the sand.
Better yet:
The man in a fedora chased the woman, whose derringer held secret data: why do men crave females in pheromone sombreros? They stopped, embraced, tip-toed through Georgia, eloped by light of UFO to star-struck Tennessee.
These “occurrences” are what we see and feel and touch – not physics plucking quanta from dark stone. Phrases emerge from wet-ware cocoons, squirt through gray-matter like eels. Hooked and reeled by poet fishermen who listen. Brought to market for whomever. But the ocean is dying, its fruit inedible. Anyway, today’s shopper tends toward less malodorous fair.
“Here” is a chain of painful links that will endure so long as “now” is gulped by fat, wet life. Sorrow is our only own. Heart and fraud of the matter reduced to pulse-circuits. Currents. What-have-you.