Thursday, May 1, 2008
mirror or mirage
I wanted everything everyone said to be
poetry. I was younger. I needed the world
to be like that. I'd try to remember every
sentence; every image. I did, for awhile,
but when I'd write them down later,
they wouldn't be
poetry. not always.
And that was what i wanted.
I've not changed much. Sometimes I can abstract
myself; remove myself - far away - enough enough away -
then it is. Then it's bearable as the unbearably beautiful
can be - all surreal and dream-like and heavied with
verse. I have to do this. I have to survive. I have
to write.
"Objects in mirrors are closer than they appear."
My back is to it all. I'm watching him walk
towards me. The mirror is small; a broken off
rear view I can hold in the palm of my hand.
He touches my shoulder but I can still see him
back there moving toward me. Not, as of yet, arrived.
I don't want to be this anymore
but you are
I don't want to do this
but you do
...anymore.
I should say no a lot more than i do.
A lot more.
Ah but you're a gem, he says; he said once.
I laugh. I understand him better than he thinks.
A diamond in the rough. It gives hope but no promise.
It goes rheumy with shadow, instead of glinting. Instead
of light, it swarms hard wax on water on grey; pools of
bubble's in half life. Nothing fully evolves. All my
ideas are stopping are stopping are stopping mid
sentence and winding down toward cliche'.
I can't help it. I still desire to say something
about love. I wonder at the word for what
it is; what it suggests itself towards. I roll my eyes - poke
it with a stick - drag it before a jury of my peers to have it
analyzed. Perhaps I'd best say nothing. I might though,
just do it anyway. Love, that is - just say nothing about it -
just love - you know - at distance.
Instead, I'll say something about mirrors. why some
are designed that way - to intentionally
mislead us - those we use to look behind us?
It's closer than you think. Those fifty car pile ups?
I've been there. No one's stopping anymore. So many cars and
they're all just crashing and no one is learning
from the car before them. You gotta keep your distance.
Sage advice: "Write what you know," but what if ... well.
I've forgotten everything. It's all poetry.
And suppose I told you now that I don't even own a car ...
and I know only my questions.
poetry. I was younger. I needed the world
to be like that. I'd try to remember every
sentence; every image. I did, for awhile,
but when I'd write them down later,
they wouldn't be
poetry. not always.
And that was what i wanted.
I've not changed much. Sometimes I can abstract
myself; remove myself - far away - enough enough away -
then it is. Then it's bearable as the unbearably beautiful
can be - all surreal and dream-like and heavied with
verse. I have to do this. I have to survive. I have
to write.
"Objects in mirrors are closer than they appear."
My back is to it all. I'm watching him walk
towards me. The mirror is small; a broken off
rear view I can hold in the palm of my hand.
He touches my shoulder but I can still see him
back there moving toward me. Not, as of yet, arrived.
I don't want to be this anymore
but you are
I don't want to do this
but you do
...anymore.
I should say no a lot more than i do.
A lot more.
Ah but you're a gem, he says; he said once.
I laugh. I understand him better than he thinks.
A diamond in the rough. It gives hope but no promise.
It goes rheumy with shadow, instead of glinting. Instead
of light, it swarms hard wax on water on grey; pools of
bubble's in half life. Nothing fully evolves. All my
ideas are stopping are stopping are stopping mid
sentence and winding down toward cliche'.
I can't help it. I still desire to say something
about love. I wonder at the word for what
it is; what it suggests itself towards. I roll my eyes - poke
it with a stick - drag it before a jury of my peers to have it
analyzed. Perhaps I'd best say nothing. I might though,
just do it anyway. Love, that is - just say nothing about it -
just love - you know - at distance.
Instead, I'll say something about mirrors. why some
are designed that way - to intentionally
mislead us - those we use to look behind us?
It's closer than you think. Those fifty car pile ups?
I've been there. No one's stopping anymore. So many cars and
they're all just crashing and no one is learning
from the car before them. You gotta keep your distance.
Sage advice: "Write what you know," but what if ... well.
I've forgotten everything. It's all poetry.
And suppose I told you now that I don't even own a car ...
and I know only my questions.
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