top of page

ITS OWN WILL

 

On days that come, and I don’t plan them... In times that pass, and I can’t stop them...

At those moments, I think and become sad. I become sad about what I am.

At the top of the mountains, can the sky still feel far away?

Can the air in my body become the air outside me?

Shifting and pulling until I’m weightless and drifting?

Can the ocean swallow me whole like a star in its reflection?

Can it consume me like a reflection of a star in its depths?

One thousand ripples more, and I’ll be gone.

 

What makes a good thing hurt so much?
Of envy, of foolishness, of lust and of love, of which of these and more things have I come from?

And what makes a good thing hurt so much?

The hurt wrings my neck like a soaked rag, forcing me to dry faster. Pushing me and hating me 

and making me move, and move, and move. I sob... I am ripped open.

I am a gaping wound, a pool of liquid-memories. They talk to me.

Then they turn to vapor; they turn to air. Then I dry up; I am just there.

I forget to curse; I forget to swear, I forget to ask how this could be fair.

I forget to care. I am just there.

 

Stuck to this thing and stuck to that.

Going places the same way a  s e e d  goes when it's attached to a wayward s o (u) l [e]: 

[Somehow picked up on the trail, invasive but didn’t put itself there, carried out on a careless vessel, forgot to get scraped off in the plastic bristles, forgot to get washed off by the fountain.

Carried to a gas station, out of the car, left in the sun.

Ninety-Eight degrees Fahrenheit. Breeze blows. Into the gutter by the road, finally grows, is hated. How did this get here, this weed, this ugly thing that none of us need?]

(Going places the same way something does when it doesn’t know where it’s going.)

You get that? Don’t you get that?
Someone, please, understand with me.

 

Going places the same way a pencil lead does, then snap.

Hate this pencil, breaks it more, in half, in thirds, thrown away.

Graphite blown away, no traces left of the mistake on paper.

Its pieces are in the garbage now. They are headed to the dump.

They are rotting now.

 

It isn’t always this way, but like I told you at the beginning... Weren’t you listening?

Remember, on days that come, and I don’t plan them, in times that pass, and I can’t stop them!

... At those moments, I think and become sad. I become sad about what I am.

I am sad about what I am.
 

 

 

And sometimes, I just have to zip up my own brain.

bottom of page