i drove you to to go get soil.
the place near the park, on the right side of the street coming from my old house
and you said goodbye,
gardening the way you (I) imagined, in a detailed outline, Jesus would garden,
waving off the seedlings into the loose soil,
because you’ve got no children, and you’re thirty-five too,
which is a shame, this aging business,
and this is what you do with your time now,
going to the library (on my account) and reading about flowers dutifully,
scanning essential pages and returning the books promptly.
i see you with dirty knees in my garden (you have an apartment still)
and you have a full beard for verisimilitude
and our dead friend used to say you were too genuine
and i start to realize
that everything i ever claimed i knew, i didn’t actually know.
like what happens after you die
or what animal hot dogs and pepperoni comes from
or everything about Chinese dynasties
or how to quantify explosions
and units of pain,
or where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet,
and really, since the water knows no border,
being only water,
aren’t all bodies of water singular?
does it make sense to say two bodies of water have never met?
does that make my urine the Pacific ocean?
or just the Puget sound?
or exclusively west Puget sound?
where is the line?
(in retrospect, i have urinated in south Puget sound much more regularly, and with much more volume
and clearly, with much more interesting residual contents)
(but you saw this and you know this)
and what yet, i remember a poem i wrote about this before, maybe a year ago
and i remember thinking of the same friend i think of now, our friend named Brian,
when i wrote that poem too,
and all words, singular though too, i now realize,
a factual singularity that provides silence,
like when you tell a friend another friend is dead or dying or pregnant
that rippling singularity you can’t argue with
that all words and letters have a mutual origin,
a mysterious place, a place that invokes paranoia,
(mostly because we are high when we think about these things,
and other unfortunate things)
and i remember that only Italians like totality.
that only like wholeness.
and i don’t like this sense of contradictions and the need to sense contradictions.
i feel no contradictions nor do i fear them
when i drink beer and pee in the ocean, or the sound, or whatever, at the same time
like i am a living fountain
at once inhaling and exhaling.
not feeling bored or boring
knowing wholeness and singularities
because i know people named Sergio
and people named Imad
and people named Ashley or Star
and they don’t know anything of each other.
they never saw us, pissing in the Indian Ocean,
or the Black Sea, or on the lips of beaches,
the bottoms of trenches,
the hulls of boats bigger than every house we ever lived in,
as he high-fived and swore off death and her relatives
(named Anguish, Madness, Desire, Despair and Fate)
while our friend, a man named Tharn McLeod
chain smoked on a log,
half-mumbling a threat to piss in an open convertible,
a testament of his (and in a way our)
they never saw us.