THIS IS A POEM ABOUT A THING THAT IS NOT JOY 2.22.17

Based on a memory


2.22.17


let it happen to you,

was how we made our

private joy.

But joy is not the word,

neither are all the

other words that to us mean joy.

 

What we felt

was different

 

.something as human as skin and

as strange as a

flower  d r i f t i n g through space.

 

what we felt

was sunshine.

 

I remember the sun. I remember:

open-eyed dreams, which infect

like a bleach

that dissolves the stains on our

souls,

 

wipes them away

as sunshine sucks in darkness, as freedom floats

on wind. Yellow air, sun-colored dust, a haze

through which I see you in my memory.

I  want it back.

I want nothing but myself and you.

I want an empty world.

I want a world empty of all things but the sun

and youth and freedom and yellow dust and

dreams and whatever word describes the thing

that is not joy.


Written at 11:28 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while listening to classical music and nearly dying of thirst. 

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