Archive
07/28/09 - (1)
Once a Month
Vaguely, obliquely, Through the cataractal parallax of youth's prismatic glass Refracted ever so darkly,
He's still able to recall, almost, being young, once, But he can only do so with the assistance Of each monthly addition to his "men's mag" support system.
This morning, while he concludes his hygiene routine, His eyes shift from his pill-filled medicine cabinet, To his Leaning Tower of Pisa–stack of Playboys,
Precariously balanced on the toilet reservoir's lid — The extended back of his not-so-regal porcelain throne, All three vertical feet of its magazines,
Which encapsulate, demarcate, articulate The last six or eight years of his existence, The extent of his cultural explorations into the twenty-first century.
As he stares at the dozens and dozens of past issues, His thoughts wander back to his college days — English and American fiction and poetry classes —
And in a flash of half-forgotten recollection, He attempts to dredge up a snippet of T. S. Eliot's poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" —
Something about the protagonist's self-reflective refrain, Something about measuring out his life with coffee spoons; Only, Prufrock's coffee spoons are his Playboys.
Wasn't Prufrock a young man sundered by disillusionment, Bored with and afraid of life, lacking courage and convictions? He isn't sure, anymore.
Maybe this sums him up, too. But he has an excuse, perhaps...or perhaps not. He's old (sixty-eight), living alone, and out of work.
Didn't Prufrock keep alluding to having time — Time to change, time to turn his life around, Time to do the things he'd not accomplished?
He just can't remember, can't pull that thought up, clearly. All he does know, with reliable preciseness, Is that time, undeniably, arrives once a month.
07/28/09 - (1)
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