it is evening and Summer
is still Summer. sunset
here on this postage stamp
of globe, isn’t until 940pm.
i received a letter today,
it bore a postage stamp.
the service that brings me
this letter, is failing. some
of its failing is because
it is comprised of humans,
and humans fail
even when they try very hard
not to. and some of this failing is
because some other humans
who have influence over money
and opinion, want it to fail. i think
of this as i walk to the public
bathroom in the parking lot above
the docks of my current inhabitance.
i stand straddling a sticky
slick of urine on the floor,
just in front of the urinal. men
seem incapable of not urinating
on the floor. some men do this
on purpose, a small act of warm
defiance. some men try very hard
not to urinate on the floor, yet still
urine lands there. the penis is well
enough made to keep this planet
well-populated with humans, but
it has its design flaws.
it is evening and it is Summer
and the sun has not yet set.
today is a day where it is
physically painful to interact with people,
a byproduct of mood disorder or
maybe just habit. i look at a woman
passing me on the dock,
and all i can see is barbarian.
she smiles at me and i smile
back and i see myself reflected
in her dark shining eyes, and i see
a barbarian. do animals take
the same paths in forests and
mountains, as these paths offer
easiest passage, or best chance to
keep themselves from being killed
by humans? does some trundling bear
one day carve a perilous path through
treachery and bramble, and then just
stick with it out of habit? are we
disordered in our thinking, or
are we just so habitual that
whatever we repeat enough times
in our youth, sticks?
i’ll likely mail a letter in response
to the one i today received. i’ve not
used my stamps, tucked in a faded
soft envelope that says “stamps”,
for quite some time. i wonder if they
still stick. walking back from the public
bathroom, i make certain to step in a
puddle, an easy ask when you live
on a dock, in an effort to wash
the urine from the soles of my shoes,
in hopes they don’t stick.
zakschafer.com 