It looks dystopian outside, an old friend wrote via email. He’s directly downwind from the disaster which we are all now breathing into our bodies despite double-paned windows and a distance of one hundred miles. And it will become part of us and we will age and breathing will never be the same again.
He used to send me postcards from Isla de Mujeres where he spent a month every year back in the days. He went with other friends from that time, friends who now live in the deserts of the southwest and they joke about getting together one of these days which we never will. The days wash past, endlessly and senselessly until they will be no more and we are carried downstream to join the muck that gives life, never reassembled to who we were in this life.
Once we wrote:
Sitting on the beach
with our mojitos,
two or three and then we’ll swim,
four or five then we’ll nap inside.
No deadlines, wonky printers
or grumpy programmers
No editors fighting over past perfect,
passive voice as if one comma
will end the world.
So, do you want a bunch of bad bananas?
I ask another friend.
It’s not a witty conversation starter
but she’s having a Mexican thanksgiving which means
half the world is descending on her house
and she’ll make banana bread,
and the world’s best tortillas
and guac of course and lots of salsa.
I live a shadow life but there are friends
who breath for me.
And some have penises!
Dedicated to Duke, Aaron and Bijou (I’m kind of into the explicit sexual content thing now)