I remember being young
and not feeling much
like a person,
but more like a shapeless,
formless, amalgamation
of emotion and thought
that barely made sense to
myself,
couldn’t possibly make sense
to anyone else.

I remember that very odd,
stilted,
self-awareness lasting the
whole school-day,
the whole school-year.

Sometimes,
at home,
while the record player
hissed and crackled its way through
a stack of 45s,

I’d feel a “pop” and become
something more akin
to human,
less apparition or automaton.

I’m more or less the same
now as I was then.

My arms and legs are held
in place by the pages of
beloved books, photographs
of my children,
the feel of my wife’s fingers
pressed into the small
of my spine.

I still go ghost now and again,
sitting in a room,
in the back of the house,
the albums on their shelves,
or spinning faithfully,
the texts that surround.

“Pop”

Really, I can almost hear
the realness of myself as I expand

into a more artful being.

I’ve learned something.
I’ve become something.
I’ve attained something.

I’d rather, for the most part,
be in front of people,
than with people.

When I am with people,
I don’t know how to behave,
I become anxious,
a visitant version of
myself.

In front of people,
I am comfortable,
content,
contained inside
of my own
art.

None the worse
for preternatural wear,
I’m allowed
to
pop.

*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2018