Untitled

September 19, 2003

After the water is off,
and the terrycloth towel
has rubbed where it can,
I sit here at the desk,
with can and crackers
leftovers of a snack done,
and I fight with my head
over thoughts about life
and love and death and being.
The soft clouds that hover
beyond the yellowing trees
dull the sun to twilight
and leave me yearning for
sincerity and acceptability
and the recognition in eyes
that can never really see
just how close to the edge
of my life I've come this time.
With my left foot tucked up
under my right leg, in balance
to the chair that falls forward,
I stare at words on a screen
that come out of nowhere
and threaten to break me
until I've poured them out
into the ether of the unreal
and loosed them from my head.
But in my heart, I cringe
as I know that I've made
such a mess of what I want
because what I've done to live
is present in this forum
with no real name, again,
and just begging for a nod,
an acknowledgement, or at least
a raised eyebrow in my direction.
The message is lost in space
that is not a space,
in a time that is not a time,
where lies and truths are lost
entangled in the mire
of attention and fascination
and lost among the wreckage
of the days I've spilled
into the scenery of my life.
I will scream out to the sky
and to the unimaginable again.
I will dance to nothingness
and to the insatiability of life.
I will get up another day
and know more words will pour out.
I've days and days to get through
until days run out from me.
I look forward to the day
I will no longer have words.
I ache for my mind's silence
and the day that I stop worrying.