From a friend’s advice, May and her parents planted milkweed in their yard and there grew a little forest with pink blossoms magical themselves which expanded when Monarch butterflies arrived and flitted off in orange clouds like flying lanterns
I was wondering that question, lying on a floral beach towel, a speck in a crowd of swimsuited people— all of us lumps of cookie dough glazed with sunscreen and coconut oil baking in this oven.
I lift a handful of sand, watch the grains cascade in the spaces between my fingers, thinking there’s got to be metaphors for time, uniqueness, perseverance— maybe insignificance if you’re in that kind of mood.
But above the ocean, a small plane flies before us, towing a banner advertising a restaurant’s all-you-can-eat buffet, and the sand falls from my hand, forgotten.
A quiet movie of people’s (mostly) quiet lives, showing how a person’s outward appearance can project nothing of their inner life — that a bus driver composes poetry in his head while shuttling passengers from stop to stop — that a cupcake baker also enjoys painting black-and-white patterns around the house and wants to learn how to play guitar — that people can have the urge to craft their thoughts and feelings into a form of art, like a guy practicing a rap in a laundromat; the people we see in life and might not pay much attention to them (waiters, shop clerks, fast food restaurant cashiers), so little attention that they are forgettable the moment we walk away from them — how these people, within the routines of their lives, can harbor deep creativeness that may not make them rich and famous but can make them rich in expression by forming artworks that are inspired by their heroes and have their personal touches (from experiences, opinions), so no other artwork has ever been created that exactly, uniquely matches the one now being crafted.
This is the last poem in the project, as we’ve reached the last page of the Dover edition of Joyce’s Ulysses. As luck would have it, the words lent themselves to come up with a poem about Odysseus and his journey home. Well, very roughly about the journey. And, who knows, maybe one of the sailors on the ship was named Raymond.
Mediterranean philosopher bearing formidable years: migrations on windy sea.
Land leavetaking, recurrent snakespiral movement with smellow course, everchanging travelled.
Wonder somewhere, he lost the ways, madly crossing where tattarrattat music (like breathing) brought trouble, snapped careless men.