the subject contemplated
subjectivity
the object confined itself
to only that which
could be objectified
the protagonist was a prisoner of mirth,
and thus, laughingly,
raised the entendre
double
in the back of the rapidly descending airborne vehicle
a baby was violently screaming
and being screamed back at
by a pair of ruthless incompetents
pretending to be its parents
nobody on board the almost landed but still obscurely flying vehicle
could be certain
if the autopilot had recovered
from its recent bout of hemorrhaging
the protagonist placed the object
on top of the subject
he did this lovingly,
but without the slightest
trace of desire
nonetheless,
it must be admitted
that from that moment on
all the dead people on that nearly crashed vehicle
came back to life
o you who moved me
and then removed me
i wait for you
i wait for you
o you who took me
by the hand and led me
to your land of milk and honey
i yearn for you
i yearn for you
o you who prepared for me
my bed of ashes
and my last supper
i say, go well, go lightly
it won't be long now
it won't be long
this damaged chick
sits down next to me
at the bar and she says
"I don't drink a lot.
I don't drink fast.
I'm a very boring woman,
but I know a thing or two
about a thing or two."
She's quoting Homer
Simpson
not
Greek
classics
so my riposte
is straight outta
the Coen Brothers,
"Obviously you're not a golfer."
she likes that.
we mull each other
over a couple of hazy brandies
and then, upstairs in the mirror,
there's a moment that both of us
will always remember.
it's an image of what
might have happened
in a parallel universe.
who we could have been.
then the moment is over
and both of us return
to the separate
trajectories
called our
lives.
Aryan Kaganof is the proud father of Goya and Abraxas. He sold his wheels and prefers to walk nowadays. At 44 he's still writing for the barbarians. Slowly.