I did not have a great time of running in Dreamland yesterday.  My energy wasn’t right.  Uncharacteristically, I stole away early from work and got to Dreamland well before the regular closing hours.  There I found cars and cars of scene-takers driving around the cemetery taking in the bloom of springtime flowers.  Damn, the cemetery association even has posted signs for the “Flower Tour—this wayà “  And that’s alright.  My sense of psychic disagreement  had nothing to do with the flowers or tourists.  Just me on me.  I had a figurative bitter taste on my tongue. Or maybe my tongue felt stung and was numb and just imagining a figment of bitterness. 

 

Anyway, while running I remembered a book of poetry from my youth entitled “The Man Who God Forgot”.   Immediately I, for some goddesss-forsaken reason, transcribed that personally to myself as  “The Man Who Goddess Forgot”.  Well, that’s worth exploration, isn’t it? 

 

So I returned to Dreamland, after-hours, with laptop/backpack and a couple of beers, and sat on the stone patio of Pres. Garfield’s gothic medieval castle-like monument and birthed the following poem about “The Man Who Goddess Forgot”.  . 

 

the names on the tombstones might vie for my attention

if their need for recognition were greater than my own.

but they are eternalized (as near as can be) in granite

while I scurry about, forgotten, flagellated skin, agitated bones.

 

so though literate beyond repair,

I heed not of chiseled accolades, births and deaths,

but let the names of the dead blur as I sprint past—

too busy sucking my own never-guaranteed very next (maybe) breath.

 

realizing I’m already discarded by the Goddess in this life

like a connoisseur of a dog, with a great sense of taste, would a flavorless bone,

I am dangerous to the point of a return to the nameless void,

a sense of deep cosmic destruction churns inside of me.

 

but if I could love…  yes, if I could love,

and have a goddess-lover for my very own,

forgotten henceforth, perhaps, I would not pass

(if only remembered for a howling moment of rapture firmly clasped).

 

I hear that billions of goddesses strut upon this earth—

I simply want to be the most potent man yet alive

one of them—undoubtedly the most beauteous ever in my eyes—

has (and will ever know).