By Toklas
Date: 13 November 1999

Paper Boats

It was a fine night to launch the fleet. The kind that writers 
would froth over to an unsuspecting moon. Sitting on the riverbank, 
scrunched against a lot of cold rocks, I did not feel like an 
atmospheric 'connect' to a nature that was not talking back.  
I was intent on the search for the big experience - the one 
that would start my life over like a Harlequin greeting card.  
I had never been too big on ritual.  After all, how much cure 
can there be in getting doused, cut or chanted over 
in front of an audience bent on sugar-pop sentiment? 

But, I will try anything once.   Besides, after futile months 
of trying to write my opus on the art of letting go, I was ready 
for the bizarre or mundane.  

It was a coin toss really.  

After brief reflection, it seemed prudent to try both 
combined with a few ounces of honest superstition.  
So here I am.  Sitting here with my cold butt, 
your letters and soggy matches.  

Proceeding with this ceremony, I folded up your letters 
into a lovely assemblage and pushed them one by one into the current. 
The matches hissed each time I fired the aging paper.  

They are all out there now.  Seven paper boats burning
the sting out of your words.  Slowly they drown, 
the river swallowing the ashes in torturous bits. 
Seven times should be enough for anyone.