First of all, Jack, you were sent to the corner for a reason. That pie was for everyone, not just you, we have told you endlessly about how wrong selfishness is. You won’t listen. And how many times do we have to tell you to use a fork or a spoon. Not only did you ruin the pie, no one wants to eat what is left once you put your hand in it. And how are we supposed to get that stain off your white shirt? Good boy? Oh, no, anything but, so you are grounded for a week.
They ebb and flow like tides down the half-empty street from venue to venue, many with that lost look of years in the desert, driven on by promised the land of honey notes, the mother’s milk of jazz. The event passes flap in the breeze created by their wake, some checking programs, their personal map to the festival. We stand on the corner watching humanity engage in the ritual we, after 14 years, have chosen now only to observe.
They hide in corners, and you think you can see them, but you cannot be certain for they are vague and could be no more than wishes, but belief is sufficient. As you grow older, the number of corners grow and a universe of but eight corners is now itself tucked in a corner of memory. One corner hides the face of the man who adopted me, watched for two years, before departing suddenly, and the only item I have is his diploma rolled up in a tube where my own accomplishments are rolled. In another corner the day I met the man I now call father is so deeply buried only his present, increasingly absent aging face is all I can see. Memories are elusive, appearing and disappearing without warning day by day the oldest evanesce and that corner is filled by another memory grown vague.
You have no sense of being on an island standing on the corner waiting for the light, caught cursing those who block the box. It is odd having to look up to see the sky, gray on this day, but here the horizon is only chrome, glass and stone. It is only from the 45th floor that the river brings you to ground.
Pluto is now undecided though that does not seem to trouble many. It was one thing to be a god, albeit always thought of as lesser, for that is what happens when you rule a place no one wants to visit, like being the greeter at the door of the largest Wal-Mart in Hell. It was nice being a planet, even if no one ever visited, but that was taken away by those who now deem themselves gods, replacing all of his peers and consigning them to orbit a star that has no real name. But now they say, just perhaps, Pluto is a planet, and that has given rise to a debate, while no one asks Pluto’s opinion, and he just wants to be left alone in his dark corner of the solar system.
Writing is an art form that very many never see but the unseeing of the work is what elevates it to art. This is what you often hear from the unpublished, or even from the denizens of small press purgatory, the one the Vatican will never acknowledge, for the poets corner of heaven is so deeply hidden away. The words on the page know better, they see the beauty as they tumble from the pen, and need no confirmation.