Looking out beyond
the beyond I yawned and took a rusted lawn mower out from behind the shed. I rode it nobly past the lookers and
the mannequin-like ladies while they waited for a table at the mall. They’ve been recently mining the
moments of madness found in going both ways between the lorn and the forlorn,
the storm and the sanctuary, the bare breasts of their sensual sisters and the
naked loins of their lovers. I cut
the grass while I was at it, put every crass thought in a basket and tossed it
heroically to the gathering crowd, along with cuttings for their compost, the
leavings of my lost weekend, and the grievings of my organic speculation. “My weak side is stronger than your
strong side ever was,” I said to the man waiting for a ride on my mower. “And my tongue is considerably longer
than your muscle-bound neck. But
you already knew that.” Larger men
than me have made much smaller impressions of the object of their affections in
the wet cement every other Sunday after mass.
But when church let out I parallel parked my rusty
mower. I parked it for the first
time, and the last. I left it
there forever, never to be straddled by my rubber legs again. No time left to ride it now. Just too much friggin’ traffic, I
deduced with my very own vividly precocious, and slightly remarkable mind. Recently blessed General-Motors jockeys
have been racing frenzied through the fog like a frantic band of pilgrims,
stumbling blindly in a storm towards Mecca, wearing silly smiles, and stretching
blocks like a vague mirage. Blurs
are all that’s left lingering when the caravan goes by. Colors, once streaked and floating, now
choking the breath from my lungs, the sight from my eyes, the life from my
soul, stirring it up like a chilly wind, like a confessional of sin, and the
wicked grin of madness. All is
lost now, it seems, except the sadness in dying, the death in being sad, the
last one left in line before the window closes for another sorry night. That, of course, and the perpetually
hysterical pace of tomorrows chronic paupers waiting patiently to die.
Or maybe waiting for a ride on my now abandoned mower.
Whichever happens to be more important at the time,
I guess. 
