Going

Sunlight fades the storefront full of magazines. Month to month they boss us—the covers, they tell us that if we want to get happy & alluring (real happy, alluring sexually) we must for goddamn sure take up the breeding of Jack Russell terriers, or else dig ourselves a little backyard fishpond. Days of fish, days of dog, days of sex— in that order, necessarily. In the sun all the titles are trying to vanish—phrases like trout pond diluted, the 20-point sans serif, inked-red passion bleached now, apathetic, ghostly— words that want my attention like movers on the street lugging mirrors, a moment when I seem to come toward myself & then I’m gone too. I am not a greedy man. All I want is to be a visitor to this life.