This is a perpetual mourningpoem. If you were told to livefast, you’ll be aghast at life’s stretch,a thing too long for haiku, sinceelegies have length, and heft, or maybefool that you are you don’t knowyou can’t write your own, and they’llkill you if you can’t live fast. They’llkill you if you want much, too, ifyou want more than gravel to chew,and they’ll kill you if you want to, but justcan’t. This law of nature, man’s, too,rewards malignant neglect untilwe can forget your forms, your facespleading your humanity with sallow eyes.
She’s red in tooth and claw, they’ll say,as if you’d know between the two lawswhich one they meant. We make places like thisfor the ones with brains passing too slowinto our fast lane, or veering across laneswe’ve drawn for polite traffic at a pacewithout speed bumps, crosswalks, not for wewho go fearlessly and live fast. If you knewall this, you know the pressuring presenceof unmarked tombs on the premises. Peace iseasily borne for the slow-footed, slow-witted.
Yet you know nothing, slumbering, clamberinglike any child from the womb. But know this:your mother stored you there like all thesediscontented relics and specimen jars you can’tunderstand—never could—her dearest suffering, youchild of hers, child of God (Nature’s, too),prisoner of all social-traffic laws, no one’s parlortalk. They’ll kill you slow and say you’remalingering. They’ll kill you, they’ll kill you.They’ll kill you if you can’t at the least,for once, at last! Just for once, live fast.
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