Beloved,
again, I bargain
with my unbridled mind,
seeking to find
a smile
wider than time,
and wild eyes
like mossy tree stumps,
gliding against light,
in exchange
for all of
my recollection's
regrets combined.
A stranger's
divergent eyes
always disappoint,
pointing away from
the maze of memories
that light up
a late father's reflection.
Bashfully inadequate,
I project pity upon
those understudied features,
each seemingly
inferior to familiarity.
An uncomfortable stare
doesn't prepare one
for the despair of
a persistent
preoccupation
with
what is not there.
March 8, 2025
is where the Conscious and the Unconscious arm-
wrestle each other for domination, and the Unconscious
says, Lay off Buddy, you've had her all day, it's my turn
now: I've got a thing or two to say, and she's halfway mine
already. She's already churning the slow ochre clouds
faster and faster against a background, deep azure,
and there's the cool blue pearl in the center that's my
moon in her subterranean sky. They shake hands
like the gentlemen they are. Kid Id says OK, steps out
of the ring, throws his glove in the air, says he's got
to go check out some clouds of his own, and departs
for the sunlight. Now is when our lost come to call,
starring in movie roles a departure from those they
understudied in life. The curtain goes up, gold tassels
and all, and you, joyous to welcome them home,
are reluctant to return to the real world,
except, who is to say what is Real?
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