maybe (Big Maybe) your life has numbers in the title.
inked, digits trace the shadow of her hair
if you forgot...
how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
around a corner -- wherever You want
that the World is not assembling itself
atom by (jigsaw) atom
from the blueprints (and stencils)
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming (fluttering)
together with (the ebb of) Your consciousness?
the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
snappily
into focus
just as You enter the room
blending concentrated reality smoothly
into some orchestrated Existence
the next time You reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the wait-, the waiting room
give,
pause
listen,
carefully
can’t You hear the anxious atoms
brushing
jostling
shoving past one another?
Numbers, pixels, they jockey
squinting through
the eye of
the image of
the woman on
the screen of
the television in
the corner of
the ceiling where
it hangs
she wants to know
why You divide
Them from Us
so clearly
so readily
she wants to know
why Your countries
are bordered
by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!:
An extraneous dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.
not that You care, but...
how would You know?
people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d
into no more than
an afterthought
of empty space
the smell of burnt matches
You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
even death
but in an ugly way
the man on the
edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)
until They speak or You look Them in the eye
until They do something Wrong
which is why They look down
when They walk down the sidewalk
They are afraid
You Made them Afraid
to live
as a tree
in the park
where a pillar of
angry
energy
falling
failing
the
pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
in this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
door to
swing open
and tell
him
she’s going to be all right
it was close there for a while
but she’s strong
she pulled through
in the end
the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn
diamond
perfect (silence)
broken
down the middle-
aged
flawed
You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now
speak look Yourself in the eye
see Your own Face
stop looking down
when You walk down the sidewalk
it's Your painting,
don’t be afraid
to live
as a tree
in the park
They say don’t talk to strangers
and You’re a strange one indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others cannot
see that, laughing quietly to Yourself,
(You) can set the expressions on their faces
to joy
to pain
to fear
to apathy
to peace?
yeah, she likes him
and she likes him
to know that
she likes him
in the end
she wants to know
why Your countries
are bordered
to keep Them out
and Us in
this is Mine and that is Yours
You see
what You want to see (without)
(knowing what You want)
the sticker
on the bumper
of the car
rolling past whispers:
jesus is coming,
better hide the ****
the tone is green, jealous
if You listen carefully
You can almost hear, someone's
giggling
please do not think about green elephants
(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)
please do not feed the green elephants
I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles
across
existence
running
onto the very next page
You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
except for death
it is an ugly thing
yet still the chisel gouges
i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride
llac ot eltsihw i
edis ym ot god ym
through the crumbling protests
of the reluctant stone
each new line
tampers with space
holds suspect time
postpones the end
and evades death
You breathe
You write
You sing
You live
You casually craft causality
yet craft on
surely You are not yet done
You may never be
at this rate but
but
STOP
the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all Things must come to End one day
You
Yourself
have tasted the Hunger
of Greed
seen the Zeal
of Hatred
heard the Stories
of Genocide
felt the Loss
of War
and smelled the Decay
of Truth
this is Mine
what’s Mine, is Yours...
This is a major revision to the original, which was written in 2012 after getting off a night shift at the hospital. I will probably never be done revising this, because practically every time I read it I change something.
As it is very much in the spirit of the piece to involve You the reader, any and all revision proposals will be given serious consideration, although creative license is of course reserved.
