1133

The blank page has become an enemy,
Such a long absence has there been between
My busy, fledging mind and its bare skin,
Its mighty power held in nothingness.
The chance to scribble any verse or phrase
 Lies in my fingers, and its pulpy veins.

 Oh emotions! Upwellings of my soul!
What are you? From whence have you sprung?
If I am what I perceive that I am,
Which I have full confidence in,
And that is one miniscule and bumbling
Arrogant manifestation of Man,
Placed here among these hills, inside these
White and sickening walls, beneath the pale
And toxic florescent light, alone in my bedroom
As the night grows young, and the stars
One by one
Peek their silvery crowns forth from
Beneath the sea of murky jet,
So many millions of light years away,
What are my emotions to cause me
Such distress?

The scent of freshly dampened sage is lovely,
There’s little more pleasing to my nostrils
Than this fresh and wild smell. The first
Rain of spring fell today, and I opened
 My car windows to smell it
But the water got in and clung to the leather interior.
I sip on cold green tea, and
Hear the sound of my nervous
Fingers picking away at one another.
I love to live, but cannot stand the rest.

Oh, what is worse than a man with
Too much time to think? Tell me,
Who is more miserable?
What is more dangerous: the knife
In its sheath, the knife in a dead man’s
Throat, or the mind of a child?
Why such anger? Why such hate?
Why such clouding of the mind?
I’m reminded by other individuals,
But I speak of myself. I’ve been taught
How to dissect a frog, the planets,
Which compounds are soluble in water
At 25° C, and how I can make gold appear
From the combination of two clear liquids –
Isn’t that the philosopher’s stone – but
Nobody taught me to look inside, to know
Myself before I tried to understand others,
To clear my mind before analyzing that
Of a friend.

I’ve driven down these same roads
For years, under the same azure sky
And choked on the same dirt which
Fills the air, and everything. That’s why
We’ve all been waiting for rain. We
Didn’t dance until afterward, though.
Why do some men dance in anticipation
And others in appreciation? Why does
dust accumulate on all my things?
Why can’t I just fall into the fractal
Of the universe, and spend an eon
In exploration, before being plopped
Back in my dusty, crowded room,
And starting the mundane routine
Once again?

Why is it so easy to recognize our
Faults in others but ignore them
In ourselves? What is a man who
Cannot acknowledge his inspiration?
 Keats! Wordsworth! Neruda!
And what is a man who pays
Too much homage?

I met a woman in the mall
The day I broke things off
With my girlfriend. She sold
Me posters of blue Hindu gods
Wrapped in leopard’s skin,
 And phallic rocks which lay
Between the santos and the
Crystals, and I thanked her!
We wear chemicals to mask
The scent of our own bodies
Which we have learned to hate.
If this weren’t in verse form,
Would it be considered an
Unhealthy, psychotic rant?

 I’ve written myself onto the page
 By tapping keys,
And all is well.