all the sparkly bits
look down on me
as i hold tight
to the last handhold on earth.
the pull is irresistible;
not so the fear:
the unknown,
the bright open question
of what happens next
when i let go,
or my strength fades just
a little bit more,
or that mean fucker
inside my head
decides to play one last trick.
that question,
or, more accurately,
that answer,
which is there before me
as large as the sky
and completely invisible
in the overwhelming brilliance
of every mote of light
that has shone on my life
while my eyes were closed.

i wake every morning,
lie there, dull & pondering
why is it so hard?
i open my blurry eyes,
disappointed to again see
the gap separating me
from ...
    how
can i speak the name
of the immensity
that is what i am not
and what i would be?
    from
me to me? dreamt of
like the lover with wealth
and a need for my body,
a distance of the imagination:
infinite, therefore possible,
day by day
breath by breath
as i realize that
just as surely
as i am not me,
i have always been
will always be
    me.

if i had no imagination,
o the stories i would never tell!
the dreams i would not pursue,
the hopes that would leave me in peace.
with no imagination,
i'd never worry if my talent
might ever be recognized or admired;
my talent, however great or meager, no longer
would be a concern, or disappointment.
my sleep would be steady,
my days, pleasant and mundane.
life would be tolerable
and i would know no better.
i would not care
for that which i would never know
i had never had and would never lose.
if i had no imagination
i would not even bother
to consider how empty i would be
if i had no imagination.

windows make great
metaphors,
but they are even
better
at keeping the outside
out
and letting me stay in
while my eyes
and mind
wander just far enough
away
to be able to return
home
in time for
supper.

as i came back out of the kitchen
this time with a fork in my hand
i said,
“ 'salad spoon' is not a common utensil.”
truly a bon mot,
and truly wasted on Rick
thoughtfully sorting freshly dried laundry:
huh?
sensing that my audience was neither
appropriate nor appreciative,
i held up the fork, almost pleading,
and he glanced over his shoulder:
“this time i'll try a salad fork,”
emphasis on the word so he'd grasp,
so simply put,
the dry humor used to transform
my error in utensil selection into witticism;
the result yielding less bon to my mot than before,
but still, i thought,
worth more than the blank look and grunt
and back to folding toasty warm y-fronts.
but even if he lacks the wit
to comprehend, much less enjoy,
the subtle humor of my gustatory faux pas,
injestion of my salad did indeed prove more amenable
to the application of fork rather than spoon.
the pizza i ate with my fingers.

i know better.
i always know better.
you name it, i know better,
and yet....
i do learn from my mistakes, just not very quickly.
perhaps there are nuances
i have not recongized
in some of my mistakes,
so i am giving myself
the opportunity
to grasp the subtle details.
or maybe i'm just stoopid.
whatever the reason,
i continue to give
repeat performances
of my greatest, and
lamest, mistakes;
and always my response,
once the dust has settled
and i'm sitting red-faced
in my corner, stupified
to know i have done it again:
i know better.

i always know better.

so. what.

the bright darkness
of the urban night
hides most of the universe
but shows me
a safe path home:
no adding to crime statisics tonight
and no glimpse
of the ten thousand stars
available to view
in places darker & wilder,
less civilized & less lost.

i wrap my arms around you, tightly.
there is so much i hope for: too much.
this is so unfair to me
to depend on you for so many things
i refuse to see
let alone believe in.
holding you, breathing
your warm, sad scent,
i crush my eyes closed
against every disppointment i can imagine,
and cannot see if you,
caring or otherwise,
look into the same sad overwhelming
or peek over my shoulder
for a convenient route of escape.

march 18, 2008