33
33
by Shawn Misener
Instead of careening into
a mid-life crisis I found
myself thinned out and
spiraling through a neon
pharmacy sign. You all
wished me well and I never
looked back. There were
aliens hovering over the
apartment complex and
strange men taking photos
then running away before
I could catch them, but
somehow it was all ok, I had
my words and my patchwork
soul to remind me that in
the face of terror a happy
caged monkey resides, gnawing
on a silver banana and wishing
me well forever forth.
whoooooooa. misener, my friend, this rules! another job well done.
Thanks. I like it too, especially because I don’t remember writing it. Must have been during my “painkiller” phase, which ended about three months ago. Now I’m in my “basketball” phase, ’cause my guts work now and stuff.
So eloquent and flowing in plainspoken manner–this is why i am such a Misener fan (though i make a very poor groupie eating all the special brownies)! The passing of time and our presence in this continuum is a frightful yet inspiring matter. Making sense of it and being at peace with it can make or break you–or keep you chugging along thru the sustenance of fish-flavored dogfood. You decide.
This poet’s awareness always gives me a good slapping: “[ka-powee…this is so you’ll remember it.â€
“There were aliens hovering over the apartment complex and
strange men taking photos then running away before I could catch them, but somehow it was all ok, I had my words and my patchwork
soul to remind me that in the face of terror a happy
caged monkey resides, gnawing on a silver banana and wishing
me well forever forth.†–such amazing imagination and brick-wall bravery!
There are people in life who’ll try to beat you down when you turn 33 with smart-ass comments like: “Isn’t that the age Christ was when he died for mankind’s sins?†It’s good you were able to ignore such utter eschatological crap and concentrate on the real underlying meanings of life’s mysteries in the great beyond we’re all in the middle of. lol.
I leave you with this:
“On Arriving at the Age of
Twenty-Three†by John Milton
How soon hath Time the subtle thief of youth
Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv’d so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev’n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav’n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task Master’s eye.
I like the term, ‘patchwork soul.’ This term ties the whole poem together. Well done.