Right after my name,
There is a year there, the year of my birth, the year I have no memory of, the year that I was born,
Its there, signifying my entrance into this world
My spectacular entrance as a third child, born to a third child,
Destined to be without a destination,
That mighty bruiser who cries and whimpers, but will grow to be
No more afraid or chilled or concerted than the man
Who has little emotion, and can feel those things around him
As everyone does, but different in the way, that blue smells good
And bread blows yellow across the window,
To finding that the greatest salt earth driven thing
Is the love that one can feel, but not touch.
Tell me of this work, these years all past and past again,
Seeing those people around that aren't around anymore,
And figuring out that my life, when figured on a mathmatical basis
Is more than half way gone, no three quarters gone.
All this ****** work, and knowledge and love and hate,
And covering it up to be something, I know I am not,
All but the dash. Look, it is there, on this page of poetry,
On these words that so simply tell me or tell you what is,
And there is that despicable dash, that will show two centuries,
Two hundred years to choose from, this dash shall be in collection
Of those years.
Leave it blank.
