Can't Imagine

 

untitled 24 x 18 cm collage, acrylic on linen board

CAN’T IMAGINE

Can’t imagine being addicted to cough syrup.

   Or living near an abandoned overpass in Topeka.

Can’t imagine fathoming the somber pleasure

   of a modulated cynicism

even as it rises like morning fog in Southern Bavaria.

   Or not listening to Portishead or J.S. Bach

or Charles Mingus or watching Rose Lavelle score

   against Holland in the World Cup from like four

   teen different camera angles and in slow motion.

categorically I cannot imagine reading a word by Dan White.

   I could imagine though doing dynamic yoga

   in a country where the humidity is roughly 90%

and people talk earnestly about animus and anima

   and colonic irrigation while sweat drips from their nipples—

but I’m sure I would hate it.

Attending a sermon at a megachurch in suburban Houston

   would be an enormity I couldn’t possibly imagine. Ditto going

to a Republican convention at any time but especially

   if Clint Eastwood was there saying stupid things.

   Can’t imagine eating Brussels sprouts. Or climbing Annapurna.

But walking numbly through a shopping mall on Black Friday

   in Tupelo, Mississippi would really take the cake—

which I couldn’t imagine eating or having not even

   if offered by someone of exceptional imagination.