In the longing of our souls
On the edge of our dreams
At the foot of our graves
Looms a glimpse of our reality...
-- -- --
The number 4 train to Flatbush
Pulls into the Junction
My mind wrapped in silence
I'm on my way uptown
She made me forget the pain
On the souls of my feet
She was my own dialectic
Like bleach stains on blue jeans
The smell of diesel fuel
Creeps through my mind
Haunted by primal expectations
Of a most hideous strength
-- -- --
Meanwhile people are waiting back at the house
Waiting for the future to happen
But TV will get in the way
They'll spend the night sitting in their underwear
-- -- --
I reached her apartment on East 63rd.
The bell wasn't working so
I walked up the stairs and
knocked. She was sitting in the kitchen
in her red and green
cotton robe from Taiwan, sipping
low-spice ginger tea.
Her eyes telling a story of
univeral sadness.
I put my jacket on the sofa she
had found on a street in Mineola.
The apartment was cold, she had
forgotten t complain about the heat.
Every mirror was smashed, shards of
glass strewn across the floor. So they
wouldn't look at her, she said.
I sat down hard on a kitchen chair.
She offered me nothing. I felt
The walls whispering terrible things.
I said nothing.
-- -- --
Have you ever noticed when you want
To say something there's nothing to say?
When you want to say something
There's nothing to say.
When you want to say something there's
NOTHING to say!
-- -- --
She frowned at her pale bony fingers and said nothing.
Reason for writing:
I wrote this poem to communicate the sense of speechlessness in the face of life.
Birth sign: Not entered
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