En Route No. 2

Paying no heed to particular details of travel, having--very quietly--a conversation while in motion from Oakland to Monterey, Ca.

"Forgive me, Hills. I have had impure thoughts about you. Forgive me for these thoughts and for speaking openly about them[see: "En Route No. 1(part two)"]. I was just so glad to see you again--my emotions got the better of me."

"I am feeling very sentimental today; I see you, Hills, and my hands grow cold, my palms sweaty. There is a big knot growing in my stomach. I am so happy, Hills, yet my happiness is an extremely sad one--I am just slightly broken-hearted. You see, I have left someone, again. Why are we always leaving someone? And how long must we be away from them?"

"It was over two years ago that I met this person I am at present leaving, Hills, not too far from where you sit, so perfectly still, like squatting zen giants, back on your hams in contemplation. You do not move so much. You never leave anyone, do you; people are always leaving you, aren't they. How do you feel, Hills? Is there anything you would like to talk to me about? I will give you a moment here to form a response."

"Yes, of course; you have always been the silent type. But in spite of your silence, for so it is by appearances, I think I have an idea of what you're feeling, which is most likely akin to the feeling that a certain someone is feeling about me having left. Would it be out of line to use the word "abandonment"? I am not worried about getting out of line anyway, for I, in "reality," began out of line--my only desire is to get back in. Hopefully I have not gone so far astray as to impose restrictions on my attempt to get back in--what hell that would be."

"But as I say this, Hills, I see--and remember--that you still have the cows; and these cows-- passing on from generation to generation, only leaving by way of body to kitchen table, not spirit if there is one--these cows will never actually leave you. I wish I were more like those cows, Hills. I wish I were not always leaving someone, something. The other day, pretending to be in a fairytale country, though actually in an empty lot in suburbia, I ate a yellow wildflower(don't think about the name), and chewed it up into a bright mush--then I spit it out. I could not swallow the flower. I am not a beast. Why can I not be a beast? I miss you, Hills."


*Next reading:*

Wednesday, 7 April. 6.30 pm.
East Village Coffee Lounge - Featured
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.

(followed by the "Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam")

Hope to see you there. Or at least someone. That someone.
Happy belated Easter.
Benjamin Font