The Vital Function of Constant Narrative

This is the title poem from my most recent book of poetry, available online and in an upcoming anthology.

The Vital Function of Constant Narrative

If the world is but a place of language, at last

I know wherefore I talk too much.

To make a place for myself, to create out of every ten

sentences a bed to lie in, a chair for sitting;

and of the next ten sentences, even little glitches like

glitches like like,

for example, strong proof the machine is not

running down to dead.

There is a sputtering to life,

a stuttering, thus I speak in the rambling monologues reserved

for small children who know their mother is not paying

attention and must walk through her tiny ruffle

of neglect, that familiar shiver of invisibility.

The child talks loud and long about nothing;

merely the act of throat humming,

the fact of air passing over vocal chords

that makes the difference.

It is the opposite of quiet which equals dead,

always hard to live with.  Mama, watch me wink, Mama,

can you shut one eye?

Mothers go on faith that their children are human.

We have no choice, though a baby is incomprehensible

as such.

Just so, I believe the white gorilla

would not be understood by anyone other than

her trainer

busy interpreting every blink and finger twitch

Coco want a kitty?  Coco hungry for lunch?

into actual communication.

I tell you we all do it, make meaning when meaning

isn’t there,

the monkey actually dreaming of the jungle,

the children asking for some little proof

of existence, the mother dreaming

of something equally rare,

her overburdened thought processes thick as smoke

and the children talking as if they know

that now, now, now their mother will pay attention

though she has no choice, really

just a slight inclination to do so.

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