; Let It In

frustration and confession

You think I'm a lunatic,

with less sense in her words than the woman who rattles on

about the theory of entropy and the creation of man

as he was supposed to be, or so I thought I heard in your poetry.

It is possible, I am just crazy,

with no hope of replenishing the intellect that I meant to collect

through years of diligence and study,

or perhaps only through patience and perceptiveness

if I prove to have any.

Haven't a clue what you're seeking,

or whether or not I've got whatever it is

that one would endeavor to gain

by memorizing the shape of my face

or the sound of my name.

I thought --- well, what I thought is less than essential to this session of confession,

and it wouldn't be the first of many times that I were a few yards wide of the mark,

with my bended knee, it seems we're short a priest.

No matter, we're all used to missing something.

"Father forgive me, for I have sinned, I have a love for words

and a penchant for using them."

Thought I'd set them aside in favor of another way to work out what it is that's most real,

because words have a vicious habit of imperfectly construing the ideal.

Here I am, rounding the corner with what's written, skirting the issue with skilled derision.

I feel provoked, steady pressure applied, and I choke.

Instead, my mind bridges the gap by envisioning fresh paper as a means for a map.

Thus I stand, pen in hand - trying to sketch an accurate impression

of what I meant between what's been said.

A day of pure, unadulterated adventure, it has no start it has no end -

that's what he said, oh yeah, that's what she said,

two sets of eyes tracing the distance to the sun and back again.

It's not the world that's out to get me, it's the knot in my own chest,

that says that trust is not a currency to be spent,

not a trade, or an afterthought of the present.

I feigned indifference at the rest of the human race,

it was easier to disregard each passing glance

than admit that I'd found no place, neither among the laurels, nor among the shade.

Walked toward the water and sunk right in,

be it a stream, a lake, a sea, or a tributary,

I was determined to break down the levee like a missionary,

so that when I emerged I could feel the warmth again and let it in.

I admit, I overdid it.

The End

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