I contemplate, I learn
To understand the aches
Of tension in my entire backside
Because
I can’t look at myself
In the mirror
and that gets knotty.
I get up to fetch pain-relief
And distract my instant mind
I’m into the tunes,
I’m into my imagination:
I’m in.
I ask myself why I’m standing
In my kitchen?
As I linger in the silence of
Blank thought
My hands act without my intension
And I regain consciousness
As I head back to my activity
With a beer.
Oh, honestly.
I can’t possibly be this worldly.
I can’t possibly stab this tightly
As to slice thru this life completely
And go, virtually, unseen.
Go!
Be on, be on.
You know the way I jive.
Stop it.
He says to me: yesterday
My imagination was good. I wrote a poem.
I know why!
Because I got him bomb high
At the New Amsterdam Café after work.
I have made scattered, real friends.
Can move me.
HEY, DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR LIFE?
The scariest thing
About getting Age
Is being able to actually look back
At eras
Of yourself
And understand,
By LOOKING and not BEING
I remember myself at times.
Sometimes, I really do think back,
And I really do think myself
An intensely evolved person.
When I discovered this subconscious-function
Within my aging self I frequent:
Sit and calm at night and reflect upon myself by day
To get a clearer understanding
Of my-now projection.
It’s impossible.
I tell myself constantly
To be shyer and observe;
To quit making sentences and laughter.
I recline when I’m calm, and calm further
And drift truly, into
Some sort of inner peace.
I project so positively and
I’m happy and kind.
But this version-of-me is intimate
Though I’d like
My calm self to be more bold.
I contemplate, I learn.
And yearn,
I do,
For the cycle
To cease.
