Cul-de-Sac

or the Amateur Delusion // At Risk of Self-Insertion // All Hail Newsmen

At Saturday or Sunday time

In the cool heat of August

There are no passers // Only friends

Riding bikes round and round

As we imagine ourselves to be

Behind the wheels of NASCARs

And preparing ourselves for launch

To finally rocket off, down the street and up the nearby hill

Which leaves us in a state of huff and puff

For a moment we pause on top the world

Telling jokes and encouraging each other

And soon enough // In our spirited youth

We are regathered // As kings of the universe

A race is called and the contenders line up

The shot rings out and they fly off free and fast

Alas, I’ve got the yips // Left to eat dust and kick rocks

I resign // Leaving skid marks the whole way down

They’re lost in distance far off // Gone ’round the corner

I’m alone with myself // Far afield and charting my way back

You might worry that it was dangerous

But the world is a lake // A place of serenity and quiet

Cars pass as birds glide // A breeze blows as sheets spread

There are trees waving ahead // And airplanes steady my breath

Looking it over and taking it in // I am carried through and within

Slewing from sidewalk to asphalt to driveway

There’s nothing with which to fill my head

I am peddling in the midst of wonders

Lost to the moment // Enraptured with awe

Taking freedom in my return // And humming along

As the melodies and songs of my childhood ring in mind

Then I can recall;

Crossing the finish line in my own way and time

Receiving no applause and finding no one waiting

The Cul-de-Sac sitting on it’s own and inattentive

Untrampled // Unvisited // Occupied by noontime sun and poolside shade

But there was the putter of lawnmowers and a tranquil air

Then I was;

Ditching out in front the house and running across the lawns

Pulling myself up to peek over fences and excitedly intruding // Searching

Taking great leaps over dog poop and snaking past sunbathers

Climbing a tree to peer down and see

Then spying from my vantage;

The older girls // On their phones // In angst and cutting vision

Their voices called in tone of threat and colored a toothless warning

Suddenly, and at once, I was on assignment and leapt to the ground

Sneaking around bushes, snooping past hedges and straining to listen in through the rustle of greenery and mess of vegetation

On my stomach // In the dirt // Dedicated to my purpose

Taking down notes that told of naught but ridicule and nonsense

And with this I would construct;

Printed words // Cut by scissors // Arranged together // And glued

At my desk and given to the task of crafting

I made headlines in the piece of paper // Framed the perfect photo and drew it

It read;

My sister’s a no-good blister kisser // Planning parties with her boyfriend

Oh so proud of my work // Presenting my baby to the world

I marched into the kitchen

Swept the Times and the Journal off the counter

And replaced them with my urgent report // The news that I just broke

In a world of spin I was all fact // Welcome to journalism, kid

And with a bowl of ice cream I’ll gladly be repayed

Scoop by scoop

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Geoffrey Bosserman

9/25/2022

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Author’s Commentary

This came to me as a dream and it was inconceivably relaxing. The prior day had been full of mental anxiety as I dove down a rabbit hole I’m not equipped for—the CCP and it’s geopolitical strategy at present. It seems that bright minds on either side are agonizing over the international tensions and there’s something of an English language presence on Substack (see the follows of my Substack account) which seeks to bridge the gap. I was struck by one post in particular, poetry not politics, which displayed a stunning degree of simplicity and beauty—shining moments of humanity that twinkle like diamonds. So then I was inspired to strike down lines of action in the active voice hoping to capture the dream that was so perfectly full of life. In it’s closing moments I tried to compose a Substack post over top a girl standing in her front yard as the sprinklers were on—like a jam session on weed/acid. Making art of the moment. Then I woke up and it was all gone. I can’t remember what words I chose but they fit her and I and held it together for all of time…damn. I hate it when I forget things, man. This is all because of Lorde and that goddamn album cover—Solar Power. I’m tired of sniping. Just accept what they put in front your face. Be happy.