dear
old self — you were too uncritical too unenlightened and too certain of things
uncertain. your screams were too silent, your dreams were too vocal, and your
deceit was underdeveloped. enthusiasm shields errors or deaths raise character
while some have destroyed you. in avoiding grudges, or not venting hostility,
the personality has acquired quirks. I know more about you. I have a trust in
you. I seem to settle in our sullenness. (I wish we knew more let unknown.)
I bought an orange crystal or
reappeared an instinct I handed myself leniency.
discipline comes by practice by
study by diligence. we shoo hard inquiry for surface pleasures never claiming
full acknowledgement of another human. we set goals for writing but never went
deep enough, we shunned too much uneasiness. we never hammy much. it has become
what is resisted. we slipped into familiar, unfruitful habits. we laughed
expectedly. we put on charades. where others became comfy with an unsuspecting façade.
I negotiated with you. I promised something extraordinary. I came through in
parts. (we now trust a bit more).
her face kept changing. it was
noticed. until we refaced her entirely.
skin or eyes or riches; pain or
solace or familiarity; sex or drugs or easiness — by flow of oceans by sky-fixture,
by experience when inspired.
I came to conclusions if but to
survive, you were displeased with me.
I no longer hassle over bodies,
their texture, their location. at incipience, there was great impugning,
tremendous grief. what we need can’t be given. what we write is far too upfront.
and what we want is debated sorely.
dear old self — I never outlooked
you I merely revamped you, while I understand your perspective: an unfinished
notebook, or a reread magazine, where most cravings are cosmic.
