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1. “1984: In Sisyphus, San Francisco” was written by Rommel Chrisden Rollan Samarita for the 30th issue of Taj Mahal Review: An International Journal Devoted to Arts, Literature, Poetry, and Culture (June 2017), a book anthology published by Cyberwit.net, India.
1984: In Sisyphus, San Francisco
after Harry Wilson’s Days In San Francisco #1, 1984
written by Rommel Chrisden Rollan Samarita
When I look at the man in the middle of San Francisco,
I imagine a myth of a tree walking in the city.
Like a tree, the postman holds and carries with him leaves:
Dates—days—months—and—numbers—
Like a man, the ancient tree stretches its sturdy arm
To hold and offer Aeolus some of its gentle days.
These sheets are signs; leaves are signs: scattered, empty.
Will this place ever know the art of Saussurean sign?
Somewhere, the postman must have sung a song.
At some point, the tree must have delivered a poem.
The purest of songs are poems, the purest of poems are prayers;
Yet semiosis tells us that they are as arbitrary as words.
Like this bordering silence, words are held. Kept, but not for long.
It’s easy to tell that they have both held the promise—
The silence—the question—the curse of this inevitable losing
Of parts: verse slipping, away, letting our past outgrow us.
I know that the postman has offered all his days in the city
Only to see himself become a man; and, the true
Fulfillment of the tree is to see itself standing with nothing left.
In life, we live to carry the signs that carry the signs
Of our living. In time, we will live to let go of these signs that let
These signs resign from living. In the end, I imagine
Them both happy seeing themselves to have gathered nothing.
Because nothing is happiness, nothing is happiness.
The city must have heard the rhapsodies of the solitary postman;
The woods must have heard the hums of the ancient rhapsode;
But these places never fully know. Like what happened in Ephyra.
To go back there in year ‘84 is to go back to a question left
Unanswered “Along the uphill trail, when and where did Albert Camus
Imagine Sisyphus happy?” The King has lived to roll
Gods’ boulder that rolls the boulder of his existence. In Sisyphus,
The King must have known happiness, but never felt it.
In the Street of Sisyphus, the prowling postman and the trudging tree
Must have fathomed freedom somewhere in San Francisco,
But never found it. Our leaves are in transit. Our signs: unforgiving,
But the places where lives are held will always be
Forgiven for not knowing: meaning.