Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton

 The harvest season is mostly done, dry and moderate weather gone – to return with the longer days.  November arrived, winds and wetness. Swollen rivers and the chilled uncomfortable urge to escape; as if pursued by a craft of fear, unanchored.

It is that time of year, He & She gathering the warmth of days. considering one last picnic. There is still work to be done before the cold and the wind set in, but a simple repast will maybe sustain their efforts.

We know how this must feel for Yorick – deep, experienced, coherent, noble, humane, thoughtful ideas – surely they would bring about a richer world.

Maybe the beauty with which Yorick wishes to express it is the conundrum.  Present times call for more blatant aggression, more bombast, less poetry.

Consider the dance available:  the music – unheard, the movements – repetitive, the resolution – exhaustion, the venue – something less than The Savoy, the decorations – meager, the conflict – elevated …  wait, do both fall?

Is there a better fight … oops, I mean dance ?

Long fuses, sputtering, eventually approach the powder.

Along with the seashore and glaciers there is an erosion of empathy. A common boy, like so many before our memory, an adventurer; finds the wild unattainable, save through imagination (and bluster), advances through our prairie. 

This is where a mystery charted a wildness, united with the markings of a human hand ( elegant to a degree maybe impossible in this digital print age ), instruction as to how to arrive at the tent home of Yorick and the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.

The round and rambunctious world, conveniently charted, industrialized, and greatly flattened.

Maps, a path, offer some simple guidance for wandering boys (girls also),  but in this incidence a common boy.  You may want to join him, help him, know him; as if one should follow a map of distinct directions and absolute ends.

Yorick, so romantic, so absurd, so truthful to his condition, so hopeful you will cogitate, so aware of real things; offers another poem.  A love riddle for a utilitarian thing wishing you a moment’s consideration of that which serves you.

Doodle waves.

According to Yorick, that is the “what” God did … doodled with waves …  stirred them into something (named?).

Everywhere, a bundle of Everything.

That bundle was so dense – ( the Waves ) – that things, things came about.

[ ( T…H…I…N…G…S )] !!!

Everywhere in an everything, a vortex for languid vanishing transformations; and, (this may surprise you) very few rectangles, fewer yet squares.

It seems that right angles would have to wait until the coalescing waves formed into humans; humans of a special type. Humans enamored by rigid outlines, controlling the mystery of Doodles.