there is no sun, no west,
no east.
night falls, morning comes like
clockwork.
but,
what does the night hide?
and what does morning make new?
i don't know when you wrote this
poem,
or if when you wrote it you
had a song-to-be in your head,
but i've rarely (at least not
first-hand) seen you wander into
the night; rather, you - much
like i often do - ignore possibilities
that another morning could bring,
and choose to grasp
a bottleneck as if you could choke
yesterday's throat. i would know -
i've blamed a lot of yesterdays.
and you went on to say that
rays of new sun beam onto
beauty that rests, as if it were
potential energy.
beauty is kinetic.
beauty does not rest. it is a killer,
and a victim, as it suckerpunches
you, and cowers. beauty is
not love, and love is not a victim,
and doesn't cower. those may be the
only differences, but i prefer to
think that love may have its
redeeming
qualities.
i don't care how sunny,
it doesn't shed light on a
damn thing, clears nothing up
anymore than night hides things.
but you were right:
"somewhere in time
something is lost"
but what did you lose that you
have not re-found and lost
again and re-found and....
there's no hiding, man.
we were always more alike than
most, and
i know what you're looking for -
love, for "things" to make
sense, for that orange-y
haze of childhood innocence (yes,
in my mind, childhood was orange,
carpeted floors, "playing house" (and
"doctor") and an electric organ
by the hallway that no one ever
played) to return, for the "real deal" -
whether in the form of a woman,
an oblivious grin, fruity drinks
on a remote sandy beach, or finding out
the hard way.
i'm finding things out the hard
way. i'm missing "things" (people,
smells, strangers (not to be confused
with the aforementioned 'people'), and
everything else i knew would
be missed. i'm realizing that
all the time in the world
doesn't necessarily mean an abundance of
inspiration. i do dishes wherever i go.