From flywichita.com

In the summer of 2022

I stood at the teetering edge of the continent

letting the rhythmic pulse of the Pacific sting my toes

while I considered

the simultaneous strangeness and familiarity

of life in 2022.

. . .

In the summer of 2022

I rummaged restlessly through the brown paper bags of my soul

looking for ruptures and torn places

hoping for healing and strength

listening to the ominous rustlings

of life in 2022.

. . .

In the summer of 2022

I stood in the towering heat of the central valley

feeling the dryness of my bones

while I lifted my eyes to the unmoving mountains

and whispered my petitions and pleas

for life in 2022.

Designpics/Getty Images via Northwestern Mutual

How does my memory work?

Is it a library

in which I can wander through rows

and aisles and stacks and rooms

filled with carefully organized

accounts of my experiences?

Is it a river

constantly flowing in one direction

from which I can pluck out

random bits of memory?

Is it a vast warehouse

filled with dusty piles of yesterdays?

Is it an open-air market?

A bank vault?

A data-packed server room?

Is it a wine cellar?

A curio cabinet?

An anthology of essays?

. . . . .

All I know is

my memory reacts instantly

to many various stimuli:

a word, a song, a smell, a thought,

and each memory brings with it

a long, long train of connected memories –

places, faces,

fashions, passions,

emotions, and devotions,

to bring a smile

or a cringe

and sometimes a surprise

about something long forgotten

. . . . .

It is a stack of scrapbooks

among the cobwebs in the attic,

waiting to be discovered.

. . . . .

Memories are waiting.

Take a few moments

to remember

the moments.

Getty Images

I know what It is.

I expect footloose.

I want carefree.

Life does not cooperate.

My feet are anything but loose

and I am certainly not free of care.

My hapless dreams

are butting up hard

against so-called reality.

I want what is

to stop being so

insistently

in my face.

Closing my eyes does not help.

I still hear It.

I feel It breathing on me.

I smell Its terrible presence.

I taste Its foul essence

at the back of my throat.

Ignore It.

Lie still.

Think about a happy place

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It’s no use.

The pressure continues

in my stomach’s churning,

all around and in my heart

my brain

behind my eyes.

My teeth are grinding.

My jaw is clenching.

I breathe slowly…

…in…

…out…

…in…

…out…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

No.

I don’t think I really know

what It is.

Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

I’ve heard people say,

“Time will tell.”

But it seems like Time

is being awfully tight-lipped these days.

I mean, Time ain’t talkin’.

Time apparently has found a secret

it wants to keep.

Time keeps passing,

but its lips are sealed.

It is maintaining a resolute poker face,

not tipping its hand.

Time refuses to snitch.

It is withstanding relentless interrogation.

It is not giving us any new leads or clues.

It is not naming names.

It is not cutting a deal.

Time is resolute.

Time is not telling us anything.

At least,

not yet.

I guess…

you know…

eventually…

Time

will

tell

.

.

Right?

.

That’s what people say.

so many voices

here is an oft-heard refrain

how can I listen to

so many voices

how do I choose among them

how do I discern

the catalog in my mind

gets edited every day

seemingly several times a day

this voice I trust, mostly

another voice makes me wince

a new voice is added – for a while

that voice I remove from my catalog

I hear them

I try to listen

in the interest of objectivity

and the so-called facts

are all over the map

where is my voice

what is my voice

it seems to me

my voice is the tiniest whisper

in the constant clamor and rush

of the world wide whine

all those voices

like the strain of jet engines

pushing themselves onward toward

thrust and lift and flight

like everyone else, I want to fly

but in what sense

flee into the barren wilderness

hidden away with my hands over my ears

far from the harassing voices

or soar into the heights

where the air is rare and cool

the view is spectacular

and… what voices?

there is only the wind

I hear one voice

and I have ears to hear

Without so much as a fare-thee-well

or a by-your-leave

my dad used to say these things regularly

along with

well ain’t THAT a fine how-do-you-do

or he might declare someone never said

Boo! Kiss my foot!

and he was always humming

whistling

or softly singing

usually Farther Along

or I Know Who Holds Tomorrow

and nearly every day

several times a day

Mairzy Doats

my dad avoided what he considered

crass and vulgar language

no profanities

no obscenities

clean lips – that was my dad

genuinely

he seldom got ‘ticked off’

but occasionally he proclaimed

that some situation

‘really gets my goat’

or ‘chaps my hide’

then inevitably

he would chuckle

shake his head

and say something like

‘ah, well. no need to worry about it.

what goes around come around.

you reap what you sow.’

Dad sowed a lot of goodness and peace

before he whispered his last fare-thee-well

my heart has been cruelly sliced

into disparate, desperate chunks

each queasy piece lies throbbing

where it fell when my heart exploded

unable to be contained by

my inconsolable chest

now the many quivering hunks of inmost me

lie desiccating in a scorched landscape

or drowning breathlessly on the deepest ocean floor

or gasping for air on a frozen mountain top

or moldering amongst the moss and mushrooms

of an ancient crowded forest

or trampled by the incessant traffic of the heartless city

or lost forever in the shivering vastness of an empty universe

cold

dead

alone

it’s big

and deep

impossibly big

unimaginably deep

this ocean

in which I find myself

treading water

all alone

hoping against hope

to be discovered

saved

rescued

before I succumb to hypothermia

or get eaten by sharks

or die of starvation

or simply drown

lost and alone

helpless

hopeless

homeless

in a tumultuous sea

that swallows me

and will not spit me out

My mind is always racing

chasing its tail

embracing every trail

like a mix of happy rabbits

until I am blazing new trails

cluttered with old tales

like an avenging angel of excavation

and exploration

no stone unturned

every new leaf upended

turned over

carefully examined

cataloged

itemized

prized open

scrutinized

then released

until every thought is running free

wildly organic

like a manic menu of mangled memories

until there is nothing left to remember

every thought shredded

deconstructed

then reconstructed

like a limbic lego landscape

encircled by infinite horizons

and roads that lead to nowhere

or to everywhere

paths to a million-million destinations

or just one

the same one

that brilliant conclusion

inevitable

When you start to feel like

every day is the same

each day

a mere carbon copy of

the day before

Remember

it’s not true

in fact

every day is new

there has never been

TODAY

before

ever

in the entire history

of humankind

TODAY

is new

the clichés aren’t just clichés

Yesterday is gone

You can look forward

You should look forward

anticipate

expect

see

newness

goodness

freshness

When the sun comes up

on a brand new day

it is a debut

every time

TODAY

has its own name

different from every other day

ever

Celebrate

every day’s

eponymous debut