The wheels just come off, sometimes, seen in the right — or wrong frame of mind. The world feels like an incredibly intricate, interlinked pool table. In one such frame of mind, I got the idea for this poem.
Sometimes, the wheels just come off
Out of infinite stories, one rises from the veil
exiting a library rich with stories.
A few telescope through webs of time
gossamer of real and unreal
interstices of history’s reference points
the rest unavailable books on endless shelves
They are there.
We are here.
Standard operating procedure:
Look for meaning in everything.
Anything can be meaningless
Accident usurps a moment
We scramble, as if trapped,
only meaning can release us.
“Why?”
We think hard about it
Myths make a bed for meaning.
But sometimes, you know, the wheels just come off
You hit the road wrong,
you’re the sorry asshole struck by lightning
Chemicals flip a switch that
trips you far back into another time,
breaks through and sticks.
The continuum strings through our lives
all our lives
the different names and circumstances
the different roles
In what next transition will we intersect again
in what odd next universe, strangers at one?
David Stone is a New York City based writer whose most recent book is 21 Poems. He also wrote a memoir: The Witch Next Door,
What the Promenade Remembers
A morning walk, a small act, and the quiet difference between what we notice and what we leave behind.
The light on the East River in the early morning is different from the light anywhere else on the Island. It comes in low and sideways, catching the water in long, uneven flashes. On certain days it makes the promenade feel less like a walkway and more like a corridor someone once meant to finish but never quite did. When I was younger I found the suggestion to stop and look at it faintly ridiculous.
