The Waiting

This summer is a torpedo that failed to launch. It’s sitting half way out the barrel and the crew is in panic, knowing the damn thing could go off at any moment. I’m the dumb bastard who volunteered to poke it with a broomstick. Either it explodes and my outcome is sudden, or it dislodges and sinks like a sleepy tomb, saving the crew above. I wonder what the explosion is like ringside, to see the burst and the brightness. I’d rather catch it in the face than be the men on top who slowly drown as the ship goes down.

How do I define the destruction? It could be any of a number of things. Success, failure, confidence, confusion… a new self awareness, a new attitude, the ability to write or to fail at writing, the ability to love or to fail at love… It is only one thing when broken down: change. I am the torpedo, the crew, the ship, the ocean, and the creatures inside. I am the sunny storm that warms the water and the dark glacier that cools it at night. I am the silent poet, the fruitless killer, the chordless balladeer. I’ve heard someone say that the awkwardness of morning is better than the loneliness of night. I will push the torpedo to see if they were right.

I used to think that France was my destination, but now I know it was just a stop en route. I sat in the shiftless trains and depots and restaurants and became Parisian. I smoked Gaulioses, drank 1669, sang Montand, and slipped through the streets of Picasso. I traced Miller from New York to La Place de Clichy, I rang up tabs, told stories, gallivanted and danced the Carmagnole from Paris back to Minnesota and now I’m broke. My soul is a food stamp, my heart a pre-paid debit card. I spent all I had, so I push the torpedo for a new balance.

Since I’ve been back, the work has been tireless. I’ve sung to hundreds, gyrated my hips, stomped my feet, clapped my hands… I’ve put in extra time meeting and greeting and loathing and seething. I’ve wished farewell and welcomed anew. I am still thirsty. The people wanted Petty so I gave them Dylan. The people wanted Lessing so I gave them Rimbaud. Then someone noticed I was giving myself and now the sound of chirping lulls me to sleep in a fantastic boredom. I took away reference and watched the eyes of the audience saturate with bovine wonder. There’s no time for this man, they say. So I push the torpedo from more time...