In the matter of a few hours, a trace of rain, just enough to dampen the surface of the soil, was enough to bring forth another wave of sunflower sprouts. Breaking through, they look like they’re leaping into the unknown, almost as if they’re parachuting skyward, and my up is their down.
Is there anything I can imagine that isn’t rooted in my life experience, my observation, my reading, my listening, my conscious and unconscious memory? And isn’t this an unimaginative question? Doesn’t it assume certain limitations which are themselves imagined?
A while ago, my breath caused my glasses to fog. But the room wasn’t cold, and I wasn’t wearing glasses.
In this society, almost everyone, in one form or another, is a salesperson. Due to the constant onslaught, even many of us who aren’t, act as such. We act as if our very lives are for sale, our days, our nights, our private moments, our intimate secrets. The price we ask of others, and the price we pay ourselves, is attention.
April 25, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces