once, the roads all lay wide open before us, turning in hundreds of different directions, taking people on magical journeys to numberless destinations, along magnificent trails of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always a few dead ends, here and there, but one could always turn around
you could backtrack, without experiencing too much anxiety over lost time
you’d happen upon interesting choices, unmarked intersections, where there was no signage to help you navigate your way
it was all up to you
choose your own adventure, twist-a-plot, flip a coin, “eeny, meanie, miney, moe; my mother told me this way… and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path, with guesses, hopes, and fears, but no real way of knowing what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death but, you might find treasure, fame, or perhaps, unravel a mystery
“once there was a way to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now, the roads have all narrowed
many of them, if not most, are blocked off ||||| completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees, barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without wrecking your vehicle
all the roads, even the dirt ones, are littered with toll booths, every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money” extortions of gangsters looks like chump change in comparison; third-graders, threatening to beat you up for your milk money
half the available highways have fallen too far into disrepair; you can’t walk down them, for fear of stepping in a hole, breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads, those still open and drivable, the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare congested with vehicles, all belching exhaust, and piloted by madmen, caught up in the throes of full blown road rage
too many cars, even though the travelers on all of these roads already know…
there’s nothing at the end of any of these highways; nothing they’d actually want, anyway
the obsession is no longer “where are we going?”
it’s now “how long can we keep driving, before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about how long it will take us to get there, because we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves in the experience of the drive, desperately trying to forget why we ever got into the vehicle in the first place
we no longer ask ourselves why we even have a vehicle
such questions would only cause us to think about what is at the end of these endless roundabouts, and dirt paths, running through fruitless orchards, as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete conveyor belts, mindlessly herding us through the turnstiles and metal guide-rails of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important? that we had to build these heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these crazy people, rudely plowing ahead in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly, if whatever it was…
isn’t even there, anymore…
then, why the hell are we still out here?
why are we still on these
tacky footpaths, made of gauche steppingstones, leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds where five out of every ten tankers are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over, by the police
only one out of every ten vessels on our peculiar, asphalt rivers is in good working condition, and sailing on nicely
and, even that one still lacks any sense of where it’s headed
what fever is this, that overtakes us, compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken freeways of the damned
infinite trails of tamed wilderness that lead to absolutely nowhere
you will miss out on everything good in this world, because you pay no mind to anything, unless it makes you feel intense pleasure, within the first few seconds of your coming into contact with it
but, most things that are worth a fractional damn take time to comprehend
only camouflage, disguises, and baited traps are appealing upon the first, hurried look
you lack the patience for anything of depth; the slow, patient tempo, the subtle building up of tension
you are a toaster pastry junkie, surrounded by strange, delectable flavors which are unknown to you
blackberry brioche bread pudding might not be your cup of Earl Grey, but it’s at least something new
you’d have to slow down enough to try it, and that means it’s never going to happen
you’d much rather stage a five-lawyer defense, arguing that you already tried it, years ago, when you know damn well that you’ve never even heard of it
but, you’ll swear… you didn’t like it back then, even though a four-star chef flew in from Paris just to make it for you
therefore, this one couldn’t possibly be any better
you’d prefer to spend fifteen minutes trying to convince everyone that you had something just like it, (only far superior to it in every way) for breakfast
it doesn’t matter that everyone in the room saw you, walking out of the shop this morning, with a dozen doughnuts and a coffee
it’s more fun for you to say that you’re allergic to blackberries, even though you know good and well that you’re not
rather than simply forking off a little nibble, and politely giving it a taste, we must submit to your twenty-five minute tirade, lambasting us for being so foolish, as to believe that we were actually eating what we thought we were eating
you so kindly break it down for us, in very small words and short sentences, that if it wasn’t made by Louis XVI himself, in the bathtub of Marie Antoinette, then it’s not actually a real blackberry brioche bread pudding, and it’s technically only a “sparkling Viennoiserie,” despite your having learned that term only half an hour ago, while eavesdropping on the waiter at the next table, thinking nobody else heard it
but, by the time you have finished making your ridiculous and utterly pointless case, the rest of us have cleaned our plates, paid the bill, and quietly fucked off, while you were busy looking at your reflection in the silverware
and, even if it’s embarrassing, it’s still the gospel truth… I used to collect amnesias, but now, I’ve given all that up; gave the whole set back to her majesty, the queen
and now, there’s so much knowledge, it won’t even fit on the milk cartons
but, the juice is much more slippery, on the other side of town
if we’re really telling all, there are only sharks in the sea
each bite, delicious sadness, if you must know
let’s be totally clear about all of this,
we’ve grown far too close to one another to stop lying to ourselves, now
the party favor wasn’t punished for passing itself around, but for passing itself off as a thing all nailed down
let your hairless cats hang loose, and slip into something nauseating
it ruins the texture of the pudding, if you don’t bleed it out just right
so, dish out the starchy, fat parts of the story, so you can pick up a new one, down at your favorite food truck
give it all away before midnight, and the fifth is free
not to burst any bubbles, but the snowman isn’t actually made of lunar cheese
and, all that rain is fake; it’s really nothing more than water
the consigliere is only guessing, it’s all wild speculations; hopes that no one will notice, that they’ll all just play along
but, the wandering minstrel has lost his will to lie down
and, the troubadour is sharpening his boots for the dance
on the level, I will tell you that motor isn’t running, only because it’s all out of rocks and gum balls
if it’s time to get real, then we must suck it up and finally admit, all the Kewpie dolls are dying in the streets
the cobbler is high again; treatment didn’t take
the shoes are made of peaches, the boats all made of pearls and, the pears are getting fresh with the sailors in the saloon
apricot dandies dancing with apple cider cinder blocks in the twilight of everything that never happened thrice
rehearsing old headlines for all the latest, breaking news
the oysters are all full of shotgun pellets
all the nails are soggy, and the slugs are too tall
every day is carte blanche ice cream, caviar, and internal hemorrhaging
all the wild ponies are stuffed with loose rainbows, loose rainbows made of oil spills, and sprinkles of leprosy
the attraction is purely chemical, pure forever chemicals
today…
today was full of not dying
and a tentative lucidity
the significance of this is yet to be determined
it’s either a huge win, or it is entirely meaningless, or it’s the greatest loss of the entire war,
or it’s wholly imaginary, or it’s simply yet to be determined
all the bubbles are busy blowing away in the breezes
all the busy are stuck, spinning endlessly, on the quick wash unicycle
none of the etiquette equates to actual manners
no one’s manner equates
at least, not to anything short of mannerisms
the etiquette of mannequins
the ethics of plush toys; plush toys on holiday, plush toys that can’t be bothered with all your insistence on being treated as anything more than a plush toy
the horizon is full of paper cuts, and old bandaids
all the drums squeak when you hit them
each sip is dry, and demands yet another
if you’re walking into the furnace, be sure to take a jacket with you, so you don’t catch cold
every bottle you find is full of three wishes, someone else’s
none of the colors run; they all stand their ground, ready to fight you to the death
any of these knives are sharp enough to do the job, just as long as you don’t need to cut anything
all these silk handkerchiefs are perfectly safe; not a single one of them will have been harmed in the slightest, after they’re done strangling you
the factories are all at maximum production, cranking out empty picture frames and invitations to dinner
the lists of new lists seem to sit flush with eternity; none of them complain, and it takes a hot minute to become accustomed to the silence
every pile of shit that you see here, on the ground, they all taste like chocolate and peanut butter; trust me
this machine gun is so much more convenient than air conditioning
if we’re speaking candidly, then, you always preferred hanging your laundry out to dry
there are no more puppies but, we’re all stocked up on ska music, instant polyps, and disposable consciences
all the mountains shatter when you step on them… if we’re being totally honest
the days, all ripped up, for tourniquet rags
the hours, shattering into dust, if you so much as glance at them sideways
each of these marvelous things, all made possible by your presence
now, the hounds will go without their supper, and the king’s innards will spill out at his feet, there, on the palace floor
and all the poor children will cry, because none of the salads will ever be scrambled again
and the tumbleweeds will all starve, for want of the suffocation you so graciously bestowed upon them, in the days gone by
none of the little assassins will get Christmas cards this year, despite having been such good girls and boys
the coffee is full of conspiracy, and the fish all taste like marshmallows
the sleet sings sweet lullabies, in which there are no names
just between you and me, and this scarecrow, here…
as long as we’re shooting straight…
it’s terribly worrying to think that none of the boils will be allowed to fester and ripen in time for the harvest
because you will not be here to feed them
it is tragic, how much you will be missed
the traffic moves right along, screaming its miseries into the night
Kevin Trent Boswell 