There was much more to exult in than the end of the catastrophe; more to consider than the commencement of his life. Beyond his beginning, an unfortunate line of unequal longitude running down from head to foot. If mathematicians were ever near to calculate the meaning of his suffering, he could only mock their absurd effort. In them and their self-absorbed measurements he was heavy-hearted. He knew that too much cholesterol and sodium makes for bodily foul weather. Beyond that, he’d not overly concern himself with this world.
Life situations had not gone quite as he had anticipated.
Incessantly droning mechanisms idly hummed like useless objects.
(They fail to cure anyone of a zombie-like state.
The best thing they can do is to
nail men to the earth’s floor for a little while.)
He had become
seizure-smitten and unavoidably decked with the lines of age.
He had become
chained to embarrassing intravenous lines and invasive catheters.
(They are subtle, but brutal jailers.)
Beyond that, he went home, whether medical workers liked it or not; home, like living in ever readiness of the greater earth’s collapse. At least it believes it is greater; greater than the dying stars. The stars know better, but they allow the earth to kill itself anyway. He ceases to exist on its plane. Beyond that, only God can say for certain what odd roads he will take. There was and still is, much more to consider than the commencement of his life.
Editor’s Note: Ben Plunkett died on April 27th, 2020 – one year ago today. He left behind a plethora of unpublished work that his family has been able to collect. (They found much of it on 3.5 inch floppy disks – classic Ben!) This is the first poem they have submitted to us for review and possible publication. We are more than happy to continue sharing Ben’s brilliant mind and heart with the world.