French Fries

of no return. The point of it all. The point that defines 

direction or discourse. Like the stars. Today I noticed the leaves are 

already starting to turn yellow again. The path was strewn with dead 

and dying leaves, but it was still blazing hot outside. Hot as 

the dickens, Charles that is. Even that early in an end of 

the summer morning. After you get done adding up all the many 

points, can you tell me, is there a clear winner? What does 

the winner even get? Will anyone remember the special feeling they got 

from being present at that particular point in twenty-four hours, twenty-four years, twenty-four centuries, without lies or embellishment? I'm not afraid of nothing lasting 

forever, I'm afraid of love, hate, bewilderment, indifference, war, politics, religion, all

 

the usual stuff. I just want to live, but I don't know 

what for. Most of the time, I don't know what to say 

to you because I've nothing to say. I've never liked talking in 

sound bites. It sounds like birds chirping over spilled French fries. Campers talking in marsh-mellow sleeping bags, sleep walking on potato chips. The point 

is always pointing itself up at the blessed sky, but what is 

the sky pointing at? Is there something pointing back? The point of 

personal contact. The point of closure. The point of when the lights 

come back on and we're just ordinary people again, heading home or 

out to dinner. The point of a poem to poetry. The point 

of a gun, a missile, or an over the counter blue pill, 

just to name a few. The other thing I had noticed was

 

the consistent racket of insects, like someone mowing a lawn in an 

alleyway, totally oblivious to everything around him. I couldn't tell if it 

was a happy or a sad sound, but I suppose it could 

have been either, or both. It never stopped, not once, in an 

hour or so of walking in the park through the trees. Still 

green, most of them. Let's give it one more go, shall we? 

The point of everything and nothing, as Mr. Borges puts it. The 

point of quantum mechanics. The point of certain spaces, in a highly 

symbolic way. The point of the lonely country of the heart. The 

point of sleeping under the stars, with someone you love, tonight

of all nights. Why not? I'm not here to please you. That 

much is evident. If I could go back in time, right now, 

I'd go hang out with Kenneth Patchen in his tiny squeezed-in backyard 

and paint picture poems until we could no longer see to paint 

straight anymore through all the bats and bugs. The point of keeping 

a book journal: a hummingbird's wings, but you'll miss out on all 

the fun, full moon in cancer, getting laughs with poetry, you can't 

force the world to be a better place, a vote against the 

blackmail of the audience, I can't reach you this way, Teri Garr 

died today, David Crosby died today, Ozzy Osbourne died today, Brian Wilson died today, Pee-Wee Herman died today, I want this love to always 

knock you over and lick you in the face, the cat out 

of the bag, Sinead O'Connor died today, Marianne Faithful died today, Dolores,

 Tom Robbins, here we go, Maggie Smith died, free toy inside. The

point of who you chose to be. I'm getting there. The point 

of getting to the point. The point of waiting for me. The 

point of whispering. The point of shouting. The point of not being 

afraid to cry, that's a road, too. The point of your wildest, 

craziest dreams. The point of maybe knowing what love is like. Oh, 

but I've felt it myself only deeply in dreams. The point of 

continuing to reach inside yourself. The point of being alone as opposed 

to just a sad blues song. The point of listening to Cancionera  

by Natalia Lafourcade with headphones on. The point of really wanting to 

try. You know what I'm talking about, things going up in smoke, 

but still believing. The point is, I guess, how to end something 

that has no ending, without feeling stupid, betrayed all over again.