"A Meditation on the Missed Connections" by Geoffrey Fallac

Stricken, blasted laughing bad one, so that for the present sympathy, carried in other directions, a kind of moody vagueness resigned to despair.

I was full of thoughtfulness till it slipped my mind.

Halloa!  Are you the girl with the green eyes I saw in the bar?

Today, at Walker's, your eyes sparkled like emeralds as you came rushing past me with a bottle

of Newcastle. Were you really so exasperated with your friends so as to flee like a nymph? How could I know,

as I was distracted by your magnificent green eyes. "If only," I thought

to myself, "If only she were wearing the same earrings in green. Then, then I would grab her and kiss her like she has never been kissed before

nor ever will be kissed again."

But, by then, alas, you had fled to the back patio. If I remember correctly,

you were wearing clothes, too.

But there were still other and more vital practical influences at work—

            so the hidden ways of—the surface,

                        secrets of the currents—

            even to the most erudite research.

You’ve left me wondering how you could know me so well. Have we met before? Am I oblivious to someone

who writes so eloquently? My green eyes do sparkle like emeralds,

or so I’ve been told.

My days are spent at a desk, exploring the vast, ever expanding internet. And those earrings,

I do have them in green as well. What would have happened had I worn those yesterday instead?

Staggered times, expansion into the half-meant color,

The principle of a sky would be one that wakens easily

To the recurring argument of a dream

beating the way a waterfall beats into being.

The truth maybe, as all the skeptics are so keen on asserting, is an undeduced

            result, of which this day is true, and maybe, so are you.

But I’m not getting all that excited about it. 

Too bad. 

Actually, I’m keen on making gestures of indeterminate affection,

            as if too hopeful that we won’t bungle the fungible love

that maybe grows in dark places and sometimes, at least, induces hallucinations.

I cannot ever parade, as if glad of the treason of future this moment is too skittish to run from.

At some time, there was a consistency.  Not just in solid foods, but I think in myself, or whatever that means. 

My words fell like rocks between me and thought. To think of it,

transparent as I was and there was no transparency!

            That probably doesn’t make any sense to you. 

No matter, it doesn’t to me either; yet I find myself believing it

sometimes, like the things people say when they talk about they’re plans.

Last month was a different era, as was yesterday,

but they’re all about the same, to me.

I’m a fan of biscuits loaded to crumbling with greasy meat and cheese and muffin-sized sausage.

So I say, fuck metaphysics, let’s play Parcheesi,

And tomorrow, when I’ve forgotten or just thought I didn’t emphasize my point,

We can say all this stuff over again

and pull out the backgammon when it’s over.

So yeah, the trees that are flowering, the flowering trees….the ones between you and the neighbors…

And the wood was still, stiller, yet gusty with crossing sun, but I stood it,

the time spending my vitality and not making it,

and then one day,

the wind like Absalom was trying to tear itself free.