Sleeping in scars, trombone fried, Netherlands is
watery; greens and hogs, dreams and not knowing, the battle is overcoming self;
violin trouble, dear pain trouble, too much to explain trouble. Each poem is
not enough. Each person is a universe. Sworn to perform. Sworn to pass judgement.
Lakes are metaphors—some are
under an edifice—some system, unique to humans. Loving is difficult. Retreating is confessing what we can’t
hear. So reciprocal the nights;
too up to fly—too low to fathom defeat … pure contradiction … this is
existence! It was different;
then we met … in all the frustration, I wonder: Why would you share that with
me? So imperative, so much understanding, to give both the best and the worse
of us. I imagine, now with
serenity, those taller trees—the fountain of the skies—those woes unchiseled,
the future spoken in dreams, the ponds, the lagoons, those meadows with ferrets
and birds and humility. Can’t
explain beyond the simplistic; and knowing that, you attacked. It was more for
self. It had little to do with actions. Just annoyed—angered—needing a reason
to live, in a reason to fight, with others knowing more of wilderness, those
clouds, the bulwarks, those scars. Color hurt also. Such a broken vessel,
claiming into another vessel; some improper potion, some great estuary, into a
silliness taking precedence.
