“Wednesday morning at five o’clock as the day begins,/silently closing her bathroom door,/leaving a note that she hoped would say more….” The Beatles had again set him on the road to Strawberry Fields & he hastily switched the radio off, lest he slobber into his morning cup: husbands/wives & lovers, & why time, time, time leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. Surely, he himself had lived a criminal life, abandoned people & places like a thief on the run, but like most egotists, he had always laid claim to innocence by virtue of circumstance & origin. Now that she was leaving [he had months/years felt it in his bones, & had accepted the high probability as much as day must pass into night, sun into rain, fears into tears] he had to dredge up all the possible psychic slime to disguise the bathos that drips like mucous & blood over her impending act, his aural wound, so to speak. At any rate, pop tunes had always left him hanging, like a run-on sentence, & he would think of closing himself with a straggle of dots, Chekov’s legacy, as though to imply an opening, a finality that is never final, a gate that leads to another gate….
But this scenario is never really novel. All doors, after all, are both entry & exit. The idea is to keep on moving, lest we rot.
From Quadratic Silences, 1991