Well, I suppose it seems so to you, who are not normal,* Become a hermeneut. Ditch your tour guide. Doubt the psychopomp who offers you a boat ride. Challenge the river Lethe to prove that you forgot anything when meaning is invented, when power is inverted, when memory is a collage and lucid dreams are preferable to the life you are leaving behind. Shake the water from your arms, where the drops fall, plant seeds. Walk away from your garden. Leave it to the bees. They will make honey, they will question the colours, mix the nectar into syrup, and paint their hexagonal murals. Do not return to the bees. Bees taste of honey, and stings. That is their allegory. Their truth is their own. Experience the sound of loneliness. Empty your mouth of other people’s words. Do not speak until you know the difference between conversations and crossword puzzles. Do not compare the descriptions of conversations and crossword puzzles. Find a new difference between them. Cultivate that difference in your daily life. Meaning: meaning making, making meaning making. Somewhere, in there, exist. Give thanks to what cups you in its ineffable hands. * The title is a line from “The Last Romantic” by John Ashbery (1927-2017)
Poetry by Canadian plum farmer Terry Trowbridge has been published in over 60 journals, zines, and magazines, including The New Quarterly, Brittle Star, Orbis, The Dalhousie Review, subTerrain, paperplates, The Nashwaak Review, Carousel, Episteme.
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