ed

Last Night:

It is 1 o'clock and I wish there was
some cute young thing
to call me up and say:
"Hey, let's go out and do something"
and I'd ask

"Do what?"

and they'd say, "Who knows yet? It doesn't matter."

and I'd say "Yes," because What wouldn't matter.
It'd be us.

But that isn't going to happen, and it doesn't make me sad. Just wistful.

I compose some great poetry in my head, walking around downtown
sitting on the back deck with cigarette in hand, spilling my breath into the dark.

Yet when it gets to paper

gone

mind as blank as the sheet before me. Blanker.
What if I am the world's greatest poet that no one will ever know?

I can't draw for the same reason. I'm scared of the possibilities. I fear ruining a stretch of desolation.
Ridiculous. So I refrain. I scribble.

I, I, I.

And yet the best work of mine is suspended in my skin forever.
Will this be the only working canvas I will ever complete?

Stories and fears and memories, mantras and reminders. Path of my life.

I can't find the place to put myself up on display, though. And who would want to see me dangling in an exhibit, least of all me?

And yet the world is my empty field, myself the artist.

But despite the audience, how can I paint so vast a canvas with my soul?

The greater fear of me as art, unrecognized or scorned.

But to show what I am, at least, is the accomplishment, is it not?

Then in the middle of all the worry, I turn my palm upward and see a pair of eyes staring at me
someone in my mind murmurs "Breathe" in a voice so archaic that it isn't even the word spoken but the meaning.
The reminder remains the same.

Patience, peace, perseverance.

Ideas to calm my mind
yet I'm at a loss.

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Also, the Toasters are playing tomorrow down in Jacksonville, and I'm gonna fucking miss them again for the third time if I can't get my hands on (someone who wants to go and will with) a car.

But Juliana's set went up! I am smitten.