the air stirs

the air stirs in a dark room and the light peaks in,

daylit where the curtain has been folded back.

just enough to see the extreme disarray his life is, to make him smile.

a crisp chill from the fan whirling nearby danced on his skin

he looked too afraid to get out of bed and turn the light on-

too sad to go look in the kitchen for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

i asked him what was wrong, and this is what he declared:

"i eat like a bird, upon breadcrumbs. they taste like promises.

i couldn't tell you what day it is for years now", he said,

"i am paragon of personal failure, of systemic scale;

the best of all the worst things to be."

when the smell of tomorrow turns slowly into yesterday

from the stack of dishes and dirty laundry by the door

as we debate the grandiosities of the greats and theoretical physics.

the sound of our voices become an echo surfing through the wind of that same boxfan,

distorted and unfamiliar from a place that he calls home-

here in the Now, in the know, in the ego, in love.

you tell him there is nothing you can do to help.

because you can teach him to walk, talk, and fish if you please;

but, you have no control over what he learns,

and we must always be controlled by something.

so...

the air stirs in a dark room and the light peaks in,

daylit where the curtain has been folded back.

just enough to see the extreme disarray his life is, to make him smile.