To Render What is Unreal Uninteresting, poem by Charles Freeland

Everyone remembers a place like that. A place he’s never been before. A moment of clarity. The swearing off of ouzo once and for all. It will no more hurt you than a hornet will. When it is looking for the overhang where its sisters are even now preparing the nursery with newspaper. And saliva. And those beads you find on moccasins. Truth is, no imitation is ever complete. Certainly not our send-up of everyday life. With its cast of thousands, people we have passed in the street. People whose faces we remember for an hour. Or a day. Until it’s time to bring them back again, from the darkness, like tuna. And we can’t. We realize the photo-paper of the mind is something fobbed off at half-price. A bargain paid for in blood. And blank stares. But that’s not the end of the story, by any means. Even your sinister type knows he can expect a coda. Something about the far side of the restaurant, where the botanist has a table to himself. And the sounds that drift his way are the sounds of people complimenting one another on things they should be ashamed of. The way they wound friends and strangers alike, as if accidentally. With a nod of the head. Brushing lips against a breast. And even then, it’s not like whatever information they gather about the Earth and our filthy little place in it hasn’t already been demonstrated. Numerous times, and to better effect. By a cameraman, say, in salt water. Surrounded by sardines, or juvenile penguins just getting their feel for the deep.