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1.

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I foresee the day I write
my final story. It’ll be the end
of one long run.

I first began my
paragraph at—what age?
Was it 7, maybe?

Then, the story jumped
to journals. Red covers, blue
& green. Binder-ringed and

thick-paper diaries. Onward,
the paragraph flowed. Squeezed
out in blue in mimeograph.

I began to illustrate the pages of
my paragraph—the self-same one!
So, right now, down in the

garage, in one plastic tub,
you’ll find many an illumined
manuscript. You’ll see the

paragraph tortured into shapes.
Traced into labyrinths, complex
as the lanes of an overgrown

garden maze, out back of some
castle or manor house, owned by
a negligent, louch offspring

of a countess. Dazed and
drunk at noon in uttermost England
or imperial France.

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2.

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The paragraph rolled on. Soon, it
grew multicolored. Green & blue,
pink & purple. In ballpoint, the

cheapest Bic. And messy,
costly fountain pen. Until I found
the roller ball of dreams.

Then, the augeries of
cyber times—faded printouts from
early Macs and cheap-ass printers.

Pasted into notebooks, as if
the output of our growing hive
mind was untrustworthy.

Needed binding and some glue
to preserve it, between cardboard
covers, safe between pulped trees.

Then, the paragraph exploded!
Onto the world-wide web it journeyed,
crawled, expanding exponentially.

Who knew where? Until, along
came engines, to parse and trawl
the syntax of the interwebs.

And like a dredge, haul up its
treasure from the seabed of
that vast ocean. So, now

you may type my name—
try it!—and you’ll see my paragraph
across the globe. It’s in Slovakia &

Russia! Alaska & Calabria! My
paragraph seems so large and long
and persistent. Though, I begin to

think, more than a half-century
after it took birth, after these long
decades of perigrination and

propagation, after watering and
throwing off its fruit on more
than 10,000 screens and pages,

the gods know where,
that I’ve not said all that much,
for all of that.

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3.

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I’ve been talking out my life.
Writing out loud, as long
as I remember. Trying to

describe the sky. The sound of
backyard choirs of cicadas.
The taste of samsara’s usual angst

and often sickening ride. Noting,
with close attention, what a hundred,
no, a thousand, no, many thousands

of folks, set across from me, or on
the telephone, or via e-mail, have
had to say. About their life, about

their paragraph. That day,
that hour, that minute. That
very second of their being.

My paragraph is fat and long.
Rich & musky. Superficial, and
deep as the Mines of Moria.

My paragraph is a dodge, a
weave. I’ve written as much to
conceal, as to reveal myself.

I am just now, after 50
years of trying, starting to
figure out what I may really,

truly have to say. Were I to try
& tell the truth, the real truth
& nothing but the truth.

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4.

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Yet, I also wish my words to
dance before you. To pirouhette,
en pointe, a Balanchine prima donna.

I want my paragraph to strut,
carved cane in hand, the Left
Bank, like a proper boulevardier.

I want my paragraph to wow you.
leave you wanting more. To, if
possible, make you gasp. To

make you—prose willing—cry.
Then, to laugh. And then
to laugh at your crying.

And want more. Every writer’s
dream is you’ll seek out our
paragraph. Not just happen on

it, in the commons, somewhere
downtown, on a rural road. On a
backstreet where all the bad

paragraphs hang out. My
paragraph is good, clean fun, which
often is its fatal flaw.

It longs to be free. To say
what it means. And mean
what it says. This is no easy

task. Most paragraphs are
liers. Dissemblers. Bumblers.
Inept and facile. Poseurs. My

paragraph, at one time or
another—perhaps right now!—
has been all these things.

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5.

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And more. As on crisp
mornings, when the sun
rises crystal yellow

and October air has the
tang of fresh-cut, green apple.
And the words flow

on the page, on the screen,
hands moving like a magician’s,
flipping queens & kings & jokers.

Which, it should be said, can
lead to deception or to
wonder. My paragraph is not to

be trusted. It’s a brigand, A
poet manqué. A roustabout.
A dandy, lier & a lout. It’s also

an acolyte. A postulant. A
journeyman & seeker. Yet,
after all these many words, I see

the day my paragraph’s story
will be done. Perhaps from sheer
exhaustion. Or exasperation

at the failure of its quest. Though,
now I think of it, my paragraph has
done a fine job, given all the

circumstances. It deserves a
rest, a job well done. An
‘Attaboy!’ I give it five years,

at best, before I write my
final ‘story.’ Then, my paragraph
and I will exit

stage left, into whatever
deep woods remain. And sit
at the foot of some tree at least

a hundred years old—preferably
two hundred or beyond. And talk of
old times. Great turns of

phrase. And what a long,
strange trip it’s been. And pat
each other on the

back. And put down the pen,
shutter the screen. And
just be quiet.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
cabell county, west virginia. aug23.2020

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