Some Redundancy~ By Matt Kolbet

I accidentally looked up was the other day, 
a typo of the first order, a question of being
in an online search for a newspaper article.
breaking too early, thinking how the past 
will append to my biography someday, 
which tragedy I’ll be remembered for most 

This is naked curiosity.

The column illustrated how frequently words
become redundancies to our time, excess 
voicing of what we’ve seen, felt, know to be 
true. For every hundred parrots, stationary
flocks, life lacerates someone’s tongue for 
speaking out, spilling secrets of who did what.

Because there are names to taste.

And titles to learn. Of course countries are among
the first, and cities and county lines, authority 
figures—yes, officer, he was thirsty—most of 
all two parents, which is often more than enough.

Mommy carries her own set of keys in case 
Daddy forgets his, or is too angry to drive, too 
tired, too drunk, can’t find the house under these 
conditions, doesn’t need to be hounded anymore.

Eventually we struggle to remember how fast 
our car was going, the black writing on the dial.

The doctors tell you where the brain has atrophied,
terms that mean nothing beyond another temporary 
state, a last stop before leaving the map, hunting 
for anything with greater definition than snipe, 
conjecture, where birds lift and have no place to 
alight, a partial world of cavities instead of walls, 
the parietal breakdown that causes visitors to offer 
corrections when you explain who you have seen 
recently, street names, who was really driving that night.


Author Bio:
Matt Kolbet teaches and writes in Oregon.