We Should All Fly a Little Higher
28 July 2021 Wednesday Prose Poem: a titular experience
Walking with the thoughts of morality crossing through the circuits of my mind, speeding down the road of my path, and I look at the road, at the cars speeding passed, speeding through their path, crossing through their life, their death. They’re relentless, and I’m walking to the grocery store. I want nothing to do with that mess.
Some friends have flown through their lives. Some have died. Some have exaggerated. Some have lied. Some have lived too humbly. Some have not strived nearly enough to align with their purpose. I do what I can with my mind while I’m still alive. I want something from this mess.
The bird is dead. It died in my hands. It flew too close to the bumper, and I feel so sad calling it an ‘it’ but I don’t know if it’s a male or female. I want to pay proper respects but I don’t have the will to check, especially on the sidewalk of a busy street. Its friends are all fussing about, probably heartbroken and shocked. I wrap it in my shirt and leave it under their tree.
I’m home now, a wave of melancholy caressing me since the bird. I fondle with the guitar and think about my friends and I can’t think of any who are alive. I read a couple of pages. Henry Miller was a bastard but he always had something wise…
