This is the way he feels right now,
the month of October, 2007, the place he
is going, the place he has already been—this is how he feels as he Google maps
the name of the avenue where she used to inhabit with her family eleven years
ago this month, the house on Beechwood Ct., the place where he came back to
after all these years—this is how he feels, using Google Earth and seeing the
glass eye of the planet squint from the parallax of some billion dollar piece
of equipment while finger pointing back into the atmosphere of the planet, and how
via squinting, employing the plastic clitoris shape-wheel dashed in the center
of a palm capped device called a mouse, watch as the digitalized orb of the planet I have
called home scrolls into view as if watching an eyelid peel back the mystery
of night and blanket into the stunning blue that is morning—the blue of my planet
reminiscent of the shades of blue pooled in her twin eyes as we sat on the
couch in the downstairs basement and I held up the my poems in the fashion of sheet music,
my lips skipping over dotted ripples of vowels and sunken consonants as if
skipping a pebble across a lagoon at dusk. And here is Megan somehow next to me
fifteen years later as I aerially scroll into the oblate geometry of the
planet. Google Earth automatically plants a pennant above the vernal quilt that
is Wisconsin, that is Appleton, the city from above a vivid topography of every
shade of green imaginable even though it is October during Harvest, and how it
resembles my first ever dream-vignette eleven years ago, chasing Megan across a
thatched field of different patches of emerald—commodious fields where the
earth stretches into an arable sea of propagating life—as I chase her through
the labyrinth of a barn and somehow end up losing her again. All this now
re-enters the tint of my vision, falling as if from high altitude, as if my
plane lost control of its nervous system and nose dives into the green of the
earth like a touch down. I see it all now, over head, the cardboard patterns of
the airport, the Fox river trickling like a tear through the center of the
suburban villa, and, employing the net atlas I find the house, the address,
stenciled in colored blue-print planks to eschew privacy laws. I see the park
where we walked past that Saturday morning to get breakfast. The dilapidated
coffee shop across the street from the abandon card-board eyed Lutheran day
care center where she shuffled my romantic predilections back into my face. I
see the splash of grass where I caressed her that perfect autumnal afternoon,
the place where I quoted rote Rumi and Whitman and Shakespeare, spilling out my
heart via employing the medium of ink-blood of others, reminding her of the time
of year thou mayest in me behold, imploring her not to the metaphysical marriage
of true minds to admit impediments. Beseeching her to follow the wild dash of
madness inside her breath as I barter out the mantras of Whitman, spilling out
the stanzas of the body electric through syncopated poetic whole and half
notes, thinking about how I quoted that same poem to Jana on the crags of the
east bluff just over a year later, only two and a half months before Megan
called me up over James Joyce and tea humbling inquiring, “Is David there?”
thinking about all this, wondering if in an accelerated century science will
have evolved to such an intergalactic purview where Google will be able to
hoist a telescope using the plank scale a millennium or two away and how,
squinting with this sort of divine apparatus lens, I can look back in time, witness again every molecule and laugh my head off in divine fits of light...
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