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The Great Loneliness By March the hay bales were ripped open exposed in the open fields like bloated gray mice who died in December. I came upon them at dusk and their attar lifted my spine until I felt like turning over an old leaf. So I walked on, a walking pitchfork. From every maple hung a bucket or two collecting blood to be distributed across America so people could rise from their breakfast healthy, hoping to make a go of it again. Now this is a riddled explanation but I am a historian of pagan means and must walk five miles a day to cover the period I will call The Great Loneliness and the name will stick so successfully that for years afterwards children will complain at meals and on sunny days and in the autumn and at Easter that their parents are unnecessarily mute and their parents will look harshly down upon the plates and beach towels and leaves and bunnies and say you donŐt know what you are talking about you never lived through The Great Loneliness and if you had you would never speak. And the children will turn away and consider the words, or lack of them, and how one possible explanation might be that inside our bodies skeletons grow at an increasingly secretive rate, though they never mention it, even amongst themselves. |
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