clearing this mess
i call my life..
it's not only you.
it's just my fixes..
for blue sky view.
focusing inward,
the turns got dark..
constructing a path,
removing the stress.
keeping the good,
and grateful to know,
(including you)
disentangle the guilt,
keeping the clean
keeping the love;
building a dream.
changing my life,
becoming what i should.
We read in places,
hearing stories heard before..
In this, a white space..
We know the story,
knowing it well
(without the prequels)
But what if..if you saw it all,
could you be content
to return now and to forget?
Could you go on
without knowing
any.. a thing..
about the People
that came before?
Is the story still whole?
(or only when a sum of its parts)
Are those broken pieces
still worth putting together?
What if that
broken mosaic
creates
a web of confusion and
frustration
even when complete..
where lies
pieces of unknowable facts?
and what if the past is full
of ugliness
and nothing good?
Nothing good.
Two-faced: the white space kills
the songs and stories
drowned out, die.
questions unanswered.
sigh
and moan,
"Why would we want to know,
other than
to understand?"
Do we need to understand,
if the understanding
is nothing
but pain
and frustration?
and here we wait,
in this questioning place.
Do we need to know?
Am I any less broken if I know?
II
We are never alone,
but alone just the same.
speak kindly to those
whose path you never know.
alone they may tread
with shadows at their back.
the kindest word,
is the word never said..
a hand never held,
or a dream never found,
to be alone, but not
is to live in a hell.
the smallest kindness
brings angels to ground.
populating the earth
without company..
we glide by
many souls
on independent
paths..
pushing our own agendas,
but never
consummating,
we go alone.
into the world,
we breath for
a word
from others..
another:
a gentle hello,
a kindness given,
but never
committed,
or signal given.
a cup of caffeine,
the occasional
lunch,
endless time
flying by,
then returned
to a stall..
sinking..
into the empty field.
an un-milked cow,
an old horse
never ridden.
a book unread,
beneath the napping tree.
never quite alone,
but still
wanting,
and
wishing (as patiently)
for a bit
of understanding
and company..
"You are not missed."
Some days I imagine a note being
read.
Red
from embarrassment
I can not lift my head
from wont
and dread.
You are not missed.
You were a mistaken gift.
A milk spilled,
a letter mis-delivered.
"No one invited you Charlie Brown!"
and yet, I..
live.
and breath.
and walk the earth.
taking up space
I did not ask to take.
Excuse me.
Apologies.
I do my best
(though it's certainly not enough.)
I don't ask to be more,
just not less.
The world leaves me
breathless.
The beauty I see
is all around me.
And there's so much
MORE
I don't know!
But I could hide
in a hole.
Where no one sees,
I could pretend to never be.
a faceless face of misery.
Why should I care if
no one misses me?
I was not meant to be,
but here I am.
Loving so much,
but some days
I just can't stand.
I want to curl up
in a ball,
(eat the whole pie..)
filling up
and covering down.
Keeping quiet and underground.
I would disappear and
not be lost.
I am not missed,
to be found.
What are these things we do to make a soul feel worth..less?
We are all living struggles.
Secrets
we keep out of view.
How can I say I am you,
when scars no one can see
may be living within you?
(or me..)
general thoughts that came to mind earlier today while reading Kay Boyle's The Long Walk at San Francisco State (1970)
