Slowly in Haste

Those leaf blowers sure make a lot of noise. Since love is the way, we nuzzle in the morning, but wake up to high-decibel screaming, dust, and exhaust smoke. More and more, being myself seems to oppose the nature of the world. I don’t want updated privacy statements; I don’t want to accept cookies; I don’t want active-shooter drills. Lustful, moody, shy, I want to keep revising myself, like a protean creature, but in a smart-phone free, non-GMO space. Something like the Quiet Car. Not hands-free though: I want to be adjusting the sails; a realist trims the sails and doesn’t whine about the wind. Don’t get me wrong—my life didn’t turn out as expected. Who knows what to expect out there? After a wandering path has led over weird abysses, I am here at the kitchen table eating cage-free eggs. I am a HE still. It would be okay if a horn blared to herald a finish, like in a symphony (“slowly in haste”). We suffer the ravages of Time & Weather, like trees holding on to their leaves for color-change. From spring to spring, we eat and avoid predators. The past intrudes, the present languishes, the future is uncertain. I hate leaving friends when the Here is simple and happy. As I put on the radio and drink a ginger ale, tanks and missiles surround the garden, the wild horses neigh.

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