by Robert Okaji
Is an ever-shifting phrase in my lexicon, appearing most often
after can’t, I’m bongo-ing, which hurls my imagination to two
separate continents — a house in affluent west Austin occupied
by a dazed and possibly confused drumming nude actor, then
to the Aberdare mountains of central Kenya, where the large,
forest-dwelling antelope are caught and shipped to distant
locales to munch on foreign food and die in captivity.
Saying these words would imply that my social circumstances
mirror those of someone who leaves his house after dark
to accompany mysterious women to wine tastings, concerts,
readings or cult meetings where animal sacrifice is discussed
but never practiced. But there are dinners to cook, books
to read, lizards to gaze upon and dog bellies to scratch, and such
limited time to squeeze in these activities, before the pillow sings
its low siren tune. Would honesty hurt? How about a simple
no thank you, without explanation. Or must we continually bolster
friendship’s groaning walls with platitudes and flying buttresses
of exposition? I’d love to, but I’ve just earned my hermit’s union card,
and I have to wash my hair tonight — the lice are breeding. There are
no excuses. Or, rather, our excuses hold this house upright, and the
truth is I just want to stay home and watch tv, tickle these dead
guitar strings, flatten those thirds, make everything minor.
Deflection fills our days. Do we not effortlessly flick aside, like
Kwai Chang Caine, the arrows and stones flung at us? I carry a
book of apologies everywhere, and resort to it frequently, pulling
it out of my pocket to surreptitiously harvest excuses, a form of
plagiarism, I know, but the desperate know no bounds, and one must
be ever aware of projectiles and friendly overtures, invitations to
happy hours and social gatherings. Can’t, I’m booked, but perhaps
you’d care to accompany me to my colonoscopy?
Robert Okaji holds a BA in history, served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, toiled as a university administrator, and no longer owns a bookstore. He was recently diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer, and lives, for the time being, in Indiana with his wife, stepson, and cat. His first full-length collection, Our Loveliest Bruises, will be published by 3: A Taos Press sometime in fall 2024 (not posthumously, he hopes). His poetry may be found in Threepenny Review, Only Poems, Shō Poetry Journal, Indianapolis Review, and other venues, as well as at his blog, O at the Edges, at www.robertokaji.com.