Reality like a failure

Lostness   (31)

 

There are days that seem spent as a spectator in my own degradation.
When life is essentially incomplete
and even weather assumes the character of fate.

I try to remember existing without a desire to escape.

 

Reality like a failure of the imagination.

 

Emptiness is also a facet of freedom. To be undefined.

 

What to offer a soul’s distress? Should I lapse from an austerity of truth?
Exchange inhumane fact for lying kindness?
Are there consolations in philosophy?

They say: “When the pupil is ready, the master will appear.”
I have waited a lifetime for that master to show up.
Am I still unready?

Perhaps a woman could teach me?
Yet I only seek her: she never finds me.
I worry about atrophy of the capacity for love.

I want to be rent with passion, not wounds of shame, through my withered heart.

 

If I could speak these words to someone
Would I need to write them down?

 

 

(Jan-Feb 1982)

(philosophy/thoughts/questions/feelings/mental health)

 

 

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Poem 1990 (3)

Afterglow

Resting partly on her soft flesh
impregnated by sleep
warmth coated me
in a soothing varnish
then drifting down
to new sensations
levers turning vaguely
while a conspiracy
of malformed sentences
mutated hazily
their strange fingers poised
above expression-keys
uncertain where to drop.

Later
I woke upon the sofa
of that recent passion
or its appeasement
struggling for recall
grasping at dream’s afterglow
through receding shapes.
We lay pressed together there
at breast and thigh
our bellies made faint cries
as if tiny ocean creatures
had been trapped
behind the skin.