Miscellaneous poetry (presented without commentary)
manifesto1
prompt: coalesce my essence into a manifesto. decide what the point is.
god help me, i haven’t a clue. i think my brain has a chunk missing.
i wouldn’t dare impose upon creation like that.
in my shadow-world there is a shadow-war, always seething,
between sacred mutanthood and the ever-persuasive, ubiquitous eye.
it’s a game. a game of perseverance and strategy and luck.
the prize is, as of yet, unknown. it may, in fact, be irrelevant.
real life, it would seem, is a significantly more complex game. the manifesto, then
cannot possibly account for every scenario, every roll of the dice,
everything that happens in every safe and private space,
everything i don’t know, everything i don’t see, everything i cannot do. i have limits,
after all, and so do you. so do we all. nonetheless, within those established parameters:
the point is to see tomorrow.
the point is that lives are not lost. that we do not live
“poor, butchered half-lives” (as jackson said)
but in the event that we do,
in those circumstances which are beyond our control,
in which our poor and lovely lives are half-butchered,
in which our time is wasted and our lives are lost,
the point is to slam in another mag,
and to grit one’s teeth. to grin,
and to bear it,
and to continue to optimize one’s performance
in this game of perseverance
and strategy
and luck.
the point is to see tomorrow.
maybe someday
maybe someday
i say this a lot
maybe someday
i'll read that book,
hear that song,
wear those clothes,
see that face
i say this a lot
maybe someday
you know?
i'll be yours
or something like that will happen
some adjacent thing, anything
anything at all
maybe someday
i say this a lot
maybe someday
this'll all be over
and then i'll get out of bed
to start my day
after a long bad night
and i'll wander alone
into my kitchen
in my home
my life
me
and
quiet
and i'll say,
to no one in particular,
(i say this a lot)
maybe someday
inventory
spread your arms wide. let me take stock of you
count your fingers: ten, painted, none with a ring
open your mouth. let me count your teeth:
thirty-two, i wonder if this will also be
the number of years under your belt by the time
that i lay my hands upon your spine.
turn around for me and let me count
your vertebrae: thirty-three,
the number of years under your belt by the time
that i see you again after having counted them
and two or three will be the number of cherished,
tattered scraps of crystalline memory, snapshots
that i have of you. and i will take stock of you
and extrapolate your life between snapshots.
and from these snapshots i will build a simulacrum
of you, that lives in a pillow i wrap myself around and
this is one of the only things i have, one of my few
important things. the things you have, i will admire:
your diamond earrings, perhaps,
your fireplace, even
your shelf of books, your cats and dogs
your saplings and your lore
your cupid's bow,
your burning bush,
your feline heart of gold.