from the external:
A prehensile lighthouse
anyone worth finding.
yes my dear
the night is
I searched my apartment
upon your departure.
My anxious eyes
and prehensile hands
and searching for a forgotten item,
a trace of your presence:
an old shirt,
a half-finished book,
even a bobby pin.
Until I gave up,
Retiring to my bed, however
afforded me the greatest find
my temporal security complete:
your scent lingers still in my sheets.
The days have past when new formulas were still being invented/discovered. "There is nothing new under the sun." Existence is non-specific to me. How disturbing! How selfish! I have lived countless lives before and will continue to live the lives of many others. At least, what I imagine could be the lives of other people. The experiences I have felt are copies. The words falling out of my mouth, just plagiarism. These thoughts have been thought; these colors have been worn. What is a "personality" but a slightly interesting combination of recycled qualities and dispositions (hooked unwillingly into the cheek of said victim)? The streets I have walked are public. This book has already been read.
In this realization, unconscious or unnecessary, we continue to strive for our individual goal (OUR individual goal): the goal of uncovering some new piece with which to happily accessorize the vast, possibly endless, puzzle which we call our repertoire, OUR repertoire.
Let me encapsulate my evening for those less informed:
I see everything, know everything
what a burden! what distraught!
Perceiving my dream is better than
conceiving my dream.
Which is easier?
Forever searching, for ever failing,
forever falling, for endless trailinggggggggg
If my mind is a shelter then my thoughts aren't home
If my poems are just words, let my ambitions roam
I forgot you were here and called out your name
The echo found me empty
The echo knows my name
Once upon a time, I rambled drunk
Once upon a line, I forgot, stumped
My parents are too gone,
my books are too long,
when will I learn to rise at dawn?
ashamed, i am:
without other bricks,
i can build no home
immaculately guilt-free is the bonded group.
never singular, always plural,
that's the definition of the group.
distinction as a him, a her,
makes me anxiously wrought
with the selfish thought
of a word not licensed, spoken
ashamed, i am
because 'i' is not only first person,
a dreaded, useless version
of human in humanity
Win twice for the girl and once for the fight
Close sunglasses for curtains et vite pro night
Born thrice for the breath yet none that I like
so much as your glow
the sun to my light.
Never did feel the absence so near
When even fog breaks,
Like a pedal in the snow
frozen with fear
my words flounder twice, then wholly disappear
Can you hear me breathing
Can you hear me sighing
Can you hear me feeling?
Can't you tell I'm dying?