Lent

I'm not sure if anyone cares, but I wanted to acknowledge that I am, in fact, double posting--here and on My Space. Whew. I feel better.


And another one bites the dust, while I linger in the desert, looking for a new map and a salve for this raw flesh, too long dreaming under a mirage.
On a less cryptic note, I've decided to start writing again because I'm getting that heaviness in my chest that feels like loneliness but is really just words waiting for a reason to wake up. It happens whenever I "lose time" to write, or find other things more important. I have no reason to be sad, but my whole emotional groove is just off, and I get all sensitive, when really I just need to let my fingers dance and my mind string words like beads on silk, tying knots to keep them from sliding all over. So, being something of an exhibitionist (what performer isn't?) I figured I'd work these things out here. Brace yourselves. Okay, self.


this, then, will be it
sitting on couches at the ends of nondescript days
watching alpenglow and thinking only
that the mountains have gone goldenrod and pink
nothing more than a life of salads and
salaries so like so many others
always similar to and never uniquely so
this sinking with the cushions to become part frame
forgetting what it was to be self, framed
becoming black hole without nova, without a making
new
that being the case, why worry about the days?
rest in the fiberfill of hours and insurance benefits
be marked by time knowing that it will pass and
so will you to the next testimonial, the next moment
without momentum, without marking more than bedposts
this then, is what we have become
the barnacles of time
waving hands like fronds in its currents
grasping at the spawn of dawns and daydreams
plastered to piers and, if we're lucky, one of the great whales
always drifting and sifting and waving goodbye