Poem 1

Poem 1:

And I could tell you the story

of my many near-sighted pursuits.

But I also stood and moved and danced

and tottered home drunkenly on especially dark nights.

And you would nod and smile politely

and say, “Such a rich existence,” placatingly.

It was me, running from things that could not exist without me.

Battered copies of my guts spilled,

read only by myself, repeatedly.

There was never a moment alone, while I was with myself.

No glass of wine could drown me,

no painted canvas could smother me.

And I could tell you the story

Of long nights in the barley.

But I could also tell you of surfaces polished to a glow.

And courses prepared by these hands; served on porcelain.

And you would frown and nod thoughtfully

and say, “So fine, so rich, so lonely,” despairingly.

It was me macheting a pathway to the hollow

where the ground and the water and the flowers and the trees

could never be owned, but were mine all the same.

There was never a moment alone, while I was with myself.

And no mindless doing could abbreviate me,

no strenuous labor could burn me down.

And I could tell you the story

of bleeding hands down to the bone.

But I also broke and swayed and gasped

and depleted my body on especially dark nights.

And you would run and yell back frightenedly

and say, “Such a terrible waste,” franticly.

It was me dropping my sword in the face of my opponents

because the forest around us was set ablaze

and they trampled me on their way to safety, beating me, regardless.

There was never a moment alone, while I was with myself.

No stark, barren nothingness could faze me

no hereafter could call me home.