This was written at a time when I was still in the midst of foolish infatuation while coming to terms with my queerness. I am sharing it exactly as it was written because I feel it offers a startling clear glimpse into a moment of self-realization. (Note: The last line is written on the other side of the bag and is not shown in the picture)
And when the sun rises, I will make
a place to rest my mind. Water into an endless
bed of roses, that ebbs and flows, it is an
ocean, constantly shifting, moving, swaying,
dancing like two lovers on the dim floor of the
nineteen-something, used to be a speakeasy
old restaurant. I don’t know the owner, but I
feel like he knows me, knows something about
me, as if there was something about the
place that could hear me, as if this page
were the sky and the scratch of my pen
the thunder, the words, clouds, pouring down
torrents of rain and hail and snow. One in
the same, as it’s like, my body, a shell, is
attached somehow, by electro-static cling it seems
like, there’s no way to make that separation (!)
without dismantling the power generator and
killing the charge, that buzz, the constant hum
that drives me, wills me forward into every
next judgement, whim and flight of fancy, there’s
no stopping it, it, what’s it, it must be the
thing inside this shell, this body it must
be an abyss, a black hole, it’s amazing my
body can stand the pressure without being sucked
in, unless I’m wrong, maybe that’s what
suffering is, maybe that’s why I’m so tired today,
well, I know that’s the reason, I can’t hide
behind maybe forever, even if that’s the story
of my life, or am I getting too personal?
Perhaps I’ve gotten to thinking that “maybe”
implied the middle way, the road of least
resistance perhaps, except I am learning
that maybe has come to mean, no. These,
these things, I might call them insight, but
I’m afraid that would give myself too much
credit or not. I think it would. I think
perhaps that I’ve done enough thinking for a little
while. Now, all that’s left to do is think
poetically, while the myriad blue and white
and periwinkle clouds pass by like birds
that have been flying so long they’ve almost
forgotten how to land.
