THIS IS A POEM ABOUT TIREDNESS AND A BURNING ROCK 3.20.17

3.20.17

Tired does not begin to describe it. Even if tired did describe it it would not be enough, because tired is everyone, tired is all of us, and things that are universal and indisputable should not be described. I won’t describe tired just as I won’t describe air. But tired does not begin to describe it. There is more to it than tired. Tired may be a part of it but the rest of it is also unbearable and the rest of it doesn’t make sense in words. The best I can describe it is this:

Imagine you are holding a rock. The rock is at a high temperature and burning through your skin. You throw the rock. But the burning pain is still there. You look at your hand, and there, though you are sure you threw it away, is the rock. You throw it away again. This time the pain gets worse. There is the rock, in your hand, though you just threw it away twice and saw it twice land far away from you. You keep throwing it and the pain keeps growing and each time you look at your hand your knuckles are gripped tighter around the rock.You realize that soon the rock will burn through your hand and out the backside of your palm. And there is nothing you can do. You throw, it stays. The ticking of your wristwatch suddenly comes into focus and you listen to time pass. You hear time and you see the rock burning through your hand and you feel the searing pain and you smell the cauterized flesh, and you witness, nothing else. 


Written at 1:47 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while….well, tired. 

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