Tomorrow.
Dreams. Worries. Hope.
One day. One person.
A single human life as template.
This hand, with bruise. These blue eyes.
This hair. This nose. This manhood.
Tokens signifying something other,
implying something more.
A question mark? A period.
An exclamation point!
My life as punctuation.
Today a series of discreet events. Experiences. Actions.
Today an unbroken stream of consciousness.
Today more a page from Ginsburg or Bukowski
than an Aesop’s fable.
More Cubist/Dada/Surrealist. More Jackson Pollock paint splatter
Rorschach inkblot abstract kaleidoscope prism
than Renoir/Seurat/Monet Impressionist reverie.
(though I prefer Impressionism to so-called “Modern Art.”)
Today, in more ways than I care to admit,
A paint-by-numbers kit.
Today, if I stumble and fall
please don’t take it as an object lesson.
Today, if I reach the summit first
please don’t hold me up as an example.
My life is not a metaphor!
My life. Today. This poem.
More improv Jazz than symphony.
More song than schema.
More garbled sound of my neighbor’s half drunken singing
through the open window in the shower
than regular staccato heartbeat
of the clock as it captures time.
Joshua Putnam