My Curator
I can't remember,
what I can't remember
new items arrive daily.
name of the restaurant,
where I ate dinner
last night
the name of the movie show
I saw last week,
the last place my glasses
went looking for me,
lucky me, only one key,
hanging around my neck,
easy peasy,
just trying to find which apartment
it's for
I can't remember,
what I can't remember
the first poem ever wrote,
the first poem ever loved,
written conceived while I ever wept,
cause
found some old ones and thought
hey, that kid is pretty good
I can't remember,
what I can't remember
when and how I knew,
what now you know
as well
what matters this, little
quote the kids,
last week is well,
so last week
or even better,
whatever...
yesterday, last week, last year
have all merged,
old men drivers, riding in the slow lane,
where the speed limit signs are reminders
go faster, keep up
the memory surplus, surfeit,
now purged, forfeit,
fear of droning,
my inspirations
grown decrepit,
forces desperate,
less than adequate creativity,
trying to pour poems Beaujolais,
before they can age,
decant, evaporate,
poisoned by oxygenation
sour turning, stupid smiling,
cause I know you from someplace,
are you a clear and present danger?
I remember plenty
of glimpses and snatchery.,
but the incoming data flow
has strained my 50's circuitry.
these memories, onboarded
now a single product
of a mass hatchery,
all eggs are indistinguishable,
therefore they exist,
therefore I was once
electronic calendar
keeps my schedule,
thus my native personality
type A,
kept in line,
the pills work,
from time to time
so I am
where I was supposed to be,
a necessary
but insufficient conditionality,
pour justifier mon existence
the mission critical stuff,
the weave, the sensibility,
the collections of sensations
of another's hand
on my back as I write,
declining, felt their dying,
having arrived at the
skinny part of the tail
of the normal curve
of natural ability
alas, alack,
too many poems dying stillborn
I have newly employed
a curator
sadly he (she?) will not
cure me,
nor save my soul,
tho he wears
a collar of white
around his neck,
and a stethoscope
over one wing,
a recorder on the other
his wage dear,
sold him my best jewels
Paying costly
for my Ponzi scheme
of reusing
words previously employed,
deeded ownership of the accidental newbies,
the old ones in the sewing box,
both now his property,
but at least, saved.
I cannot write
the name of what stands between
you and I,
tween tip of tongue
and visions of past,
but future visions, pace taken,
they will survive
should they arrive again
you reader, you are
a familiar face
are you not my
savior,
My Curator?
10:45 AM
Sept. 3rd, 2012
Labor Day
