tedbedlam

A bad poem for you. It has been a long series of days. My innocence is proven but my sense self-righteousness still feels unsatisfied. Ego eats, id eats, but I still can't get her to go to dinner with me. A nonspecific specific complaint. I enjoy the appearance of symmetry. Not its actual presence. Navajo blankets were made with each row in a sequential pattern, apparently perfect. But for each row, a thread was either added or taken away so that the spirits inside could find their way in and out of their homes within the fabric. Nobody is perfect, we exist only as individuals in our scars and bad teeth. This is how we find ourselves after we dream. This is how we are discovered through the cold anonymity of the mausoleum. Perhaps this is the purpose of our/my self-destructive nature, to colonize a planet with tiny rivets of pain to prove that we existed and to mark our way back. History repeats in the future. Our constant atomic vibration punctuated with freckles of hardship, fortitude, cancers of the body and mind. Perhaps, also, a message of survival written in the keloid tissue. Nuances of preservation. Precious little messages we would lose if we learned to be good, happy or consistent.


Shuttered/shaken

There was a moment
Years
Ago the thing went
- click click click -
In my brain
And swish!
Like a shutter
The mind opens
And closes
Taking in months
As an instant
And an instance
As a definition
A decision like light
Over-exposed
To black.