|From the odd and strangely warming catalog at this tumblr.|
i don't find certainty when i look into a mirror. or familiarity.
my face is an alien landscape that tells the world how to properly misunderstand me.
there are lines and lies and confusions representing almost a soul.
i'm trying to forget the sadness i learned,
to rebuild the inner earth seeming so tired,
to un-calculate the numbered strings that never exist
and grow into the owning and vanishing i've got ahead of me.
when i say "i love you", i mean "i'm MADE of you and
i don't understand god without you". the wicked unreality of time
drowns in the wild and innocent sea of our connection. but this is about me.
it's a painful climb down into self-forgiveness.
hugging my monsters, i imagine wailing in waltz time
and following a bewitched daydream procession
into the narrow cherry-wood halls of my anxious and magical boyhood.
i've got to be honest about the disappointment and rage
that underpin my devout confidence. this is not about lifting darkness from darkness.
everything weighs so little and feels so flimsy when the winds are at their play.
the saints will ask for charity even while the proud go on misusing
and misappropriating the quick and the dead. but this is about me.
if i could stop validating the past, i know the void futures would swallow me whole.
it seems like such a lovely way to reappear; temperate,
exhausting and tickling. the vast sadness of the masses
really does look like misunderstanding from a million miles away.
and i'm here, dressed up to be a man, longing for yawning youth
where heaviness was respect and lightness was the cross to shrug off.
i can crush myself into tininess and i can breathe myself into gianthood,
i can waste myself in humanhood and receive only what there is to receive-
i might magnify the pointlessness of flesh, make the perfect silent plea,
or help others decide to begin to see. but this is about me.
we're all hoping for openness in the closed-door grip of professional oblivion.
or we're wandering the filthy back roads mumbling about the dust,
inconceivable to ourselves and mistrusting every intimated mother waiting;
as afraid to steal as to give back or to give up everything finally.
i'm starting to suspect conspiracies among the gods i don't always believe in
and then i'm wondering how long modesty ought to be
in the face of default perfection everywhere.
i used to think of myself as emotional and applaud smugly
in the auditorium of my inner dialogue.
now it's just true love, green light, gold stars, figurines in dreams of 5000 years
and alarm clocks summoning self to everyone. but this is about me.