December 12th at 10:30 PM |
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i once wrote a poem about a basket it was a wastebasket in my living- room, cornered near the mantle, television flickering the divinity of mid-autumn sunsets stretching across the back porch, sliding in through the glass doors and i said shit man, shit, this basket has been here pretty much for ever, about as long as i can remember
so i started thinking like a poet, trying to forget all the tissues i had thrown into the basket, years of sitting beside, worn blue carpeting, dosing off before dinner. so you see like a child. does time pass slower. drawing your own hand and never thinking of a hand.
And i see now and i saw then: it takes so much effort to look at the world without the contamination of memory. so much hours of hours in- vested into pure perceiving, seeing things afresh. Eh? Eh. trim it or enjambment all you want, dude.
i still anticipate a time when love or responsibility will lead me to choose stability over this continuous affirmation of discovering but not knowing for sure, never judging, only true seeing i have wished and do still, these are not questions to fear just semi-congealed thought something comments that jump in from time to time, the unmitigated running wordspeak of days following days, here i go and where have i been. hmmm. yes, actions speak louder than words. here i am Old i am so Young.
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