Someone wrote a song, the title of which was
‘Thank God I’m not who I think I am’…
… and while I was wondering who I am – quite content in the void, for the time being – my poem sweated up off the surface of the silence and the question came to me: is suffering real?
And now! – the cries of the suffering were heard – men, women, and children were heard – crying, ‘Who would deny our suffering?’ But I seemed to hear ‘Who would deny us our suffering?’ … and, ‘We’re used to it’ someone piped up.
Too serious, I said, playing with the sauerkraut stuck in my teeth. It’s 2 o’cock in the afternoon and all I’ve had is three-quarters of a stubbie of Cascade Draught.
The shadows are moving much, much more today on the wooden floor, on the circular table. I hear the bunctious* southwest wind and a tinny radio song from somewhere.
* bunctious. As for rambunctious, but with less yang.
PHOTO © Joe Blake