WHAT IS PAST
The past cannot hold me in a loving embrace. I run too often looking for affection and recognition in things long dead and purportedly buried. I return to the ghoulish obsession of digging up old hates and sorrows, longing for support and finding only the cause of the ulcers in my soul. I wallpaper the crumbling facade not wanting to cover it up but to hold it together, trying to unify something, which is totally shattered. When I view it with a sober eye, the past is nothing but a slideshow under a strobe light. The pulse triggers the impulsive belief that it was all real when, in truth, it was the lie I survived. No life existed in the past and only now is there air to breathe. The past is all vacuum and I don’t need to be sucked away.
Take an enemy’s inventory and don’t give it back.
Barefoot smokers sit downstairs
chatting on cell phones as I wait.
Wait for the Doctor to come and tell me what?
Tell me that I am ill or hail
based on a hammer hit on the knee
and a deep look into my eyes.
I will leave this place hours late
for a life I barely understand
but am grateful to be living.
Like one of the dancing flowers from Fantasia
I am swept downstream,
but an amazing journey even while I wait
in this six by eight room.