Allowing the Six Year Old

I think I need to introduce the six year old. Narratives are new to me, at least the longer narrative. The reaper hasn’t written a complete instruction manual, now has he. They. But I suspect you have a little time to name names, maybe sit on the couch a while and talk about the weather. Yet names must be named before any clauses of the contract are discussed. As I was saying, I was six.

Clairvoyancing July 20, 1963

(stanzas 1 & 2 omitted)

Whooping like the Indians I’d seen
on Saturday exclusive matinee
performances of westerns filmed in black
and white with Randolph Scott or Joel McCrea,
she recognizes her native spirit guide
coming through the colorless countryside.

I'm six years old and see nobody there
but she starts talking in an altered tone
of voice to what is only air to me,
yet something eerie says we're not alone,
or that's the notion I remember now
recalling facts doubt doesn't disallow.

Does a blog need to live on the edges of the poet? On the critical frontiers so to speak. Talk about the glass, maybe a bit on the bottle, but never taste the real Bordeaux. Eff it. I’m pouring.