It’s not about fitting it all into the car; it’s about fitting the pieces together against the agrestic trunk space. It’s the way we hungrily wait to spit up our influence It’s the patient extraction of a cat cornered conver sation that is easier to shove under the innate rug that is this chaotic l i f e
What other kind of creature could divide Each different thing into its different sides With chaos versus order, dark and light The stark duality of wrong and right We even split the very world in two With human versus human, we and you But still no matter how much we divide Each thing has infinitely many sides
Where does the poet turn when the words cannot be found who will see him through quiet nights and solemn days as he fumbles in thought at a scene already written an emotion already spent the frightening possibility that his dreams have all been dreamed his nightmares all survived the poet's eye if narrowed is blind
a cold wind turns the corner as he makes his way to the nearby park with pencil and pad he will gaze in infinite wonder the children at play the Sun on the bay and he will wish he could live the words once again