Except for that (I love you)
After “Sunset Debris” by Ron Silliman
Everything is a lucky guess? Does it worsen? Does it cure the ache? Have you washed the sweaters yet? Can you repeat that? Will you tell me again? Did it mess it up? How do you know if it’s Orion or just three stars? How did you find it? Is there a way to work the trap? What will clear it? To whom do I owe the pleasure? Fat, or just bulky? Could he walk any slower? What do you want? What’s the difference? Why won’t you tell me? Am I really deciding whether to Amazon hand-soap to the house? Was it embarrassing? How much did you give at the time? A sexually transmitted disease or tinea corporis? Does a mouse prefer gouda to cheddar? What is architecture in this context? What about form? Is it harder to roll over or never sleep enough? Is it worth lying to your mother about? Do folks take pictures anymore without thinking of what it’s gonna look like to somebody else? Is there not anything we keep just for ourselves? Do you withhold too much? Would you regret anything? Does garlic really work on vampires? What color is it? Is there anything fun and worthwhile in worshipping idols? Is it in your New Yorker tote bag? How long to keep on making mountains out of molehills? Is it chance that I saw you on the coldest day of the year? Is there something in me that would say, well don’t they live in the molehills so we should care about them? Is there any good reason not to say the word? Can we go to the woody evergreen forest? Can we go to the bar on the corner? Will you lie down with me? Will you put your arm around my shoulder when I am taller again? Does it ever shut up? How to know if there’s too many iffs? Does it all boil down to language? Will there be fruit trees? What it would be like, life as a gnat? How do the threads connect? Were you adored or just maternal? How much of life is in the here and now? If I told you to turn over and put your ass up would you say how high? Do you need someone to say that you are good? Would you like me to lie to you? Is it ironic to seek out poetry for a sense of life’s wholeness when the whole schtick thing about it is that it’s built on breaks? What about the fact that in October the old money mansions set up plastic graves on green lawns? How many are the nameless dead us atop them? How should we then embrace? Can my dear good sister America come sit next to me on the sofa? Could you turn off the television set? Is there a possibility that you know this too? Does he love you? Will the flight take off in time?
Silliman’s work is over thirty pages in length of just questions. I loved it. My intention is to return to this work as I have the itch. I always have questions!
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