The Grammar of Solitude

“A language is a dialect with an army and a navy.” — Max Weinreich

The technical definitions of loneliness fill volumes. The best writers from each nation contribute succinct fractions. Solitude. Isolation. Anomie. In English alone we have alone. There is loneliness provisoire, a loneliness décoratif. Je veux qu’on me distingue. My sole purpose for being is distinction. Slow-moving weather yawns. The absence of any human kindness forms ice under the poles. One pole is lonely for the other: north and south sway in the shaky magnetic field of an incomplete embrace as I hope to touch her just by thinking of her, a magnetism that hardly ever works but when it does— Shazam. Splinters of spark break off from the lightning on its way to hurt. The Italians sing o sole mio. The Spanish shout olé at the dying bull. They kill them anyway after the fight: the bulls never win. It’s enough already! a yiddishism proclaims. Solitary dialects whimper me me me into the pillow longing for an army. In my solitude I whisper the universal antidote: you.

The E in Olde

A suspect appendage, a broken finger patched to a cuff. Somewhere on the Atlantic’s gray furrowed brow a sailboat capsizes. Lightning furnishes temporary illumination. The clouds are crying like babies. The extra e swings on the end of old like an inn sign on a rusted chain. It was late. The wind checked in, but there was no one at the front desk. The place was empty. Olde failed and old was taking over. An unpaid ghost shoved the ledger across the splintered desk. Right in the face of the drowned man wind had carried his last breath.

How do you spell Wind sir? With an extra e?
—No there’s no ease in wind.

On The Mountain

I come to you at the speed of night. You open the screen door. The mountain air surrounds you like a blessing. Your shoulders which I have touched are strong and tender. In your hair the stars are belligerences. There is a war in our land. But you and I are safe here as one.

As one we will walk the mountain path in the morning searching for the clear water that rolls in the rocks. As one our kisses are deep and splendid, generous as waves. I hear the owl calling softly to his mate. I hear her answer in the wind. As one the war is over just for tonight. We have our own war in the cabin our own sweet battle. All night we will win.