poetry

You can’t become yourself through another …

You can’t become yourself through using another:

you can become yourself, and then – through another –

fulfil-

l your promise.

This I promise you, and beg you to con-

firm-

a signature in SAD is wintry infirm-

i-

ty-

ing:

little left to say but that a beautiful poem

of beautiful things is far better a

thing than my life or thoughts or self or desires

or brains or intellects or beings or ways of

seeing, doing, playing or mischieving …

… for I am without worth because precisely

I’ve become the person

I am and the people

I loved.

 

Ultimately I’m me –

and that is my challenge.

Not my peace nor my kindness nor my

awareness nor my love.

Just a hole in the ground which

useless economics would have us

go fill with bags of cash,

as if cash could justly solve

my problems now: I am predictability in-

carnet, identified and typed, as obvious a

cipher as any other man or woman out there

who knows far better

the life of living unconsciously; of

simple enjoyment and ignorance of

matters beyond the Ken of Barbies multiple –

and consumerists various.

 

A strange thought is that: I wish I were able

to love being predictable: but I hate myself truly

for being this thing which you see: for the problem is

precisely I am wholly me –

and how can you know me!!!

And how can that be!!!

 

And why the fuck six exclamation marks – especially

when these are questions of terrible import,

not answers of simple negotiation …

 

So this is why I am weeping inside, though outside I am

not, and the heat of the moment leads

me painfully to see: originality is not mine;

I am as plain as Jane, and unkind to boot.

Reboot me if you can; reboot this life of

mine.  Remind me of the places and people which

once made me so fine.

 

So the loneliest place in the world is this:

to be truly yourself you must find you-

self alone, without the people who make you feel about

yourself that goodness might be yours to

establish a start: to discover the

heart you never expressed; the soul always

trampled underfoot; the you which is the prison

you are.

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