Lonesome No More by Michael Brockley

“Man is the only being
Who knows he is alone.”

Octavio Paz

 

In childhood, we passed through the doorway behind our closet into the kingdom of lions. Now our belles wed beasts cursed without glamour or foma. Instead they kiss princes who will always remain bluebeards. We gather on the deck of cruise ships to purchase Siberian brides or Mandarin husbands as an Arctic bear guides her cubs through the polar seas toward a myth of ice floes. We gather with romance in our mouths to witness their drowning. None of us is the seventh son of a seventh son. Our hocus pocus reduced to farting and dancing in a monkey house. We must feed each other, each Deadeye Dick and Rosewater,  the breakfast of champions. And unravel the Gordian knot of the cat’s cradle. The threshold to the kingdom we seek opens into the Galápagos where the wild things thrive. Where every canary has escaped from a cathouse. Where every day is Easter. Let us meet in the forest of gingerbread houses and take up the passion of wolves. Let us swear blood oaths. Should our vessel strike an iceberg in the timequake, we must build enough life rafts for us all.

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