Chapter 2 ~ III

III

We didn't realize then that we were living
those type of impossible lives.
Too crazy to be anything but true.
Too many stories to be anything but fantasy.
Too far and too few.
Especially in these oh, so, serious days.

The mind flutters about in seizure
in an attempt to collect
those events in any linear narrative.

Oh mind!
"The poor thing has produced and consumed more than it can handle."
"Pour some coffee and bourbon on the thing! Give it some food, damn it!
It'll be fine."

We didn't realize then that we were living
those type of impossible lives.
Difficult to get into
and from which there never is any true way to return.

Pasta simmers in the yellow kitchen.
Soon to be framed in with burnt-orange trim.
The stove, sink, utencils are all from a different era.
An era where charging into the void,
the magic, mystery, the humor of suffering
wasn't so difficult to communicate as it is today.
And, only 1/2 as hard to believe in.

Some nights continue to carry on into the quiet hours.
When the coffee is dark enough and the blood is hit with the appropiate fever
we speak of passports.
You talk of Paris.
I talk of Bosnia.
Enough time has passed that you have your doubts.
I, as usual, have none.
Gypsy music from the Balkans plays.

We didn't realize then that we were living
those type of impossible lives.
We rarely realize it now.