Will-o’-the-wisp

by Rob Kaniuk

/ˌwiləT͟Həˈwisp/

noun

unpunctuated: will-o-the-wisp noun: will-o'-the-wisp plural noun: will-o'-the-wisps

a phosphorescent light seen hovering or floating at night over marshy ground, thought to result from the combustion of natural gases; ignis fatuus.
metaphorically refers to a hope or goal that leads one on but is impossible to reach, or something one finds sinister and confounding.

In a poem by Bukowski, Ignis Fatuus, he says solitude is the only answer, the only mercy. Later he tells us death is the only solitude. I always liked it, but never knew what the title meant. My best guess said it was about the ignorance (Ignis) of man (Fatuus). I’ll never know what exactly Bukowski was talking about in the poem, but after I looked up the title, I now believe it was hope. Systematic, weaponized hope. Hope as a tool for manipulation, control. Hope as a drug that we can never get enough. Hope for the herd.

It starts early with the hope that mother will comfort us, father will protect us.

I hope Santa brings a go kart.

Hope dad quits drinking.

Or that my crush feels the same way I do.

Hope I don't fail 9th grade.

Or I don't get caught with the dime bag I got from Sheply.

I hope I don’t get carded.

Then I was lured with wages to sacrifice the curve of my spine for their earning report, their yacht, their vacation home. The hope being a promotion, a raise, a pat on the back for all the hard work.

Work hard and hope: the American way, the big fuckin scam.

I hoped there was something more.

They’re smarter, better looking, more popular, they have fists that come down like nine pound hammers, so I buy the hope they sell. Who said anything about trust? There is nothing alluring about trust. You can't dangle it like a set of car keys or diamond earrings. Trust doesn't hang in a thick fog over the swamp––you don’t trust the Will-o’-the-wisp, you place hope in it. Only hope would lead me to death. I just needed to believe. And believe and justify and keep on fuckin hoping the whole thing don’t come crashing down.

I follow it, believe it. I drink the poison down and die more than once or twice before I make thirty.

I hoped it’d be easier. I wasn't ready for this.

Started hoping for ways out.

A car accident on the way to work.

Cancer to excuse the appearance of a grey-tone junkie.

Sudden death to escape the shame.

I hoped I wouldn’t see it coming.

I abandoned hope and exercised wants.

Wanting is more tangible, visceral, it gave me rewards.

I wanted to lay on the gurney and count backwards from one hundred and make it all the way to 97.

Then I wanted to stay there.

In 97.

Forever.

I wanted to fight my eyes open, to live between long, nodding blinks while Hitler and Yamamoto lost the war on the History channel. I wanted black coffee to sip, a blue suede recliner to die in, and a father worth resenting.

I did the work.

I excelled in wanting.

I nearly had it all.

Then I hoped again.

I hope she doesn't leave me, that she will trust me again, someday.

I hope I was a good man.

I hope she knows I’d die for her.

I hope

I hope they know

I tried my best

I hope

They know

I'm sorry

About the Author: Rob Kaniuk is someone who has been described as a dropout, a good for nothin junkie, and a well-rounded waste of potential. After a decades-long battle with addiction, a human being emerged in 2017 and started writing. Rob is now a union carpenter who loves spending time telling stories to his niece and nephew. He has attended the Yale Writers Workshop in 2018 and 2019 and his work appears in the Schuylkill Valley Journal, Anthropocene poetry, and Pigeonholes.