Discourse from Space

by Kathy Korty

The time for this self-scrutiny was half a
life
ago,
when late-night wine in coffee cups
stained bargain basement bookshelves in
college
dorms,
and we fell asleep in boozy camaraderie
after commandeering *luv* to solve world
crises,
bringing peace to warring nations
with our own sloppy fellowship.
Then the next a.m., through bleary eyes,
we focused on "J. Alfred" in a dank classroom,
our introspection of the night before
forgotten with the last yawn after "You're
beautiful, man."
Instead it's now I'm flying through
life backwards,
like a swiftly deflating balloon,
zinging this way and that through the
air,

dismay drawn on my face with a magic marker,
wondering about the paradox of me--
one day a rock, fragile glass the next,
shattering at a word,
a ranting stoic, a spiritually earthy
conundrum
of practical romanticism.
And yet fairly easy to live with.
I look for random blips in my test
pattern.
I search for order in chaotic sounds from
inner space.
The mouse let loose in the maze bumps
into
the wall,
pauses, paw to chin, and wonders,
"Why did I do that?"
Which dead philosopher said middle age
brings contentment?
I've now lived longer than my favorite
poets,
so they're no help.
One day I rhyme, next day I
don't.

Some day the trouble all this will cause
me:
At five a.m. returning home with 1% and
low-sodium V-8,
while pondering my psyche instead of the
road,
I'll drive into a pole.
("Let this be a lesson to you, ma'am.
Don't think and drive.")
Maybe the relentless comfort of my life
leads me to this manic search for being,
or the ease of a well-learned life
forces me to plot against myself...
You see?

-- KK
©2000 Kathy Korty