Oblivious
Oblivious

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

The madness follows the son, follows the mother, follows the tongue and mouth, follows the road out of town, but won’t go there.

Collapsed, at a table, singing the virtues of the dissolute life, not totally amoral, and counting on everyone’s acceptance, except for those already looking skywards, except for those with theories on impermanence.

Collecting, at a table, all the sleeps, naps, all the words that come out of the night to talk you home, help you miss stumbling into a pebbled recycling container, miss the piss of the others dodging you, too, and there are so many maps, only one end.

Forgetting, while sitting down, the scope of the bottle, the dreary brown bottom makes tablecloth irrelevant, even happy tablecloths, because here is where the memory takes itself out, marching like suicides over the edge, here is where they get burnt in ashes, in rails, in breaking the law by moonlight locked doors.

This is a little pit, this pit is you-sized, will not grow no matter how much of your remembering you throw down there, after wine, some Jag, whole tables of beer, and you keep your resolve, and you keep up your task as a human drain.
['J.D. Harms']
['Musing', 'Forgetting', 'Trying To Forget', 'Image', 'Poetry']