Feb 22, 2019
More and more each day
my life looks like a stage set.
Props
my green rubber key chain,
the white bowl from which
I eat Cheerios.
More and more it looks less real;
it's nothing like I wanted, not at all.
It's more like a joke that's on me, the opposite
of my desires. It
waits to see
if I'll laugh. I do;
I laugh. It's so silly, wanting,
but it can't be helped.
Wanting is like breathing
or waiting
while something giant hurtles towards me
too far away to sense,
but it's coming.
And I need it.
I'm in no hurry to see through things;
they control the pace.
Who I am
is not a mistake. I came here for an exercise
a knowledge that slips through my fingers.
One day my fist will close around it.
My car is banged up and cut
my knees hurt.
I'm poor but never broke.
My broke friends know
I'll find something for them to do
and I'll pay them.
I carry some of their Stupid for a while.
It don't rub off.
I always think I'm injured but I'm not:
except that life is injury, an obscure pathway
through a forest full of thrilling birds
and venomous snakes.
Is this real?
Yeah, I guess so. For now.
