The events I catalogued here are perhaps of
other people; I hung around the fringes,
watching.
You could see the numbered pages leafing
inside my head; life is narrowing down
I could predict.
It”s a continual shoring up against one thing
or another, splintered parts, eroding and
crumbling away
I'd come a long way from somewhere, untying
myriad caged wings, with me anything is possible,
even virtue.
–
There's nothing else that I want tonight,
except a cold ivory touch in an ill-lit
corner, where
no game or ambush awaits me, as I sear
forgetting sensations, flames against
pliant skin
tapping wet windy messages in the numb eyes,
at once brilliant and shadowy, drenched in
amplified smell.
Off I”d go into the wild blue yonder, climbing
high into sky, down I'd dive, spouting a flame
from under
then walk in the dark on dust and ashes, harking
for a name, my own, even here no identity shall
claim me.
Life, that meager cache; I can get back to it,
unsympathetic, it appeals to some perverse streak
to seek out the very site that aroused bitterness,
an irony you can not fathom, no matter if I explained.
This intoxication is brief - a seduction, an illusion,
never lasting; then to be engulfed by oceanic rhythm of
denial and rebellion, volume upon esoteric volume,
the limitless kingdom of beats - not one of which
I wish to penetrate. I am a reckless poet,
I can be a woman of caprice, attachment to
a chimerical life is an explanation I was,
for all my mistrust of it, willing to accept.
I supposed it took me in fleetingly, like
optical illusions, where an image metamorphoses
into a different image, you cannot hold both images
in your mind simultaneously. So why run at all?
why run ever again? when you have no destination,
there is but a finish line. When you come to the end,
you”d find only yourself. The same unchanged.
The more you move on, the more you arrive at self.
I am not running any more, I am not hiding from life,
I believe I am waiting for it .
