THIS IS A POEM ABOUT THE COLOR OF COWARDICE AND IMAGINARY REALMS OF NUMBERS 9.4.17

9.4.17

I bathe myself in doubt.

Like red paint it drips off me

and all who see it know it

to be the mark of cowardice,

the tacit color of the shameful few.

 

 

Or

perhaps we are not few.

Perhaps we exist in the unexplainable

realm of theory, the theory of numbers

too large and furious

to be dealt with in civil wit

so they must be imagined.

yes,

the world we occupy is different from yours.

We wake to sleep

and nothing more.

We tarnish good deeds

with lies.

Our losses turn to gains,

like blood

like skin

like nails

like livers

like tails of lizards

like branches

like leaves

like rivers

like the backside of

lost love notes

discovered in the front pocket of pants

you did not know you had–

scribbled on, reused, expressing

the same desire

for two separate people

on opposite sides.

 

 

I feel I have done enough for

this world.

I am prepared to take my loss,

knowing I have infiltrated

the souls

of a contingent great enough to

carry my name through the end

of time.

 

 

. . . I say things like this

and the red paint falls off my skin

and puddles at my feet

reflecting that face

that face

that face

which haunts me and

has done so for twenty-seven years

and will continue haunting me

until I do something about it.


Written at 11:22 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

 

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