200716A
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Rattling the bones,
of fractured memories.
trying to read the inscriptions,
in cluttered bone yards
of misplaced information.
There are losses to count,
among what never adds up
to any sort of explanation,
as to why almost any sorts of hopes
are a futile sort of persuasion.
It seems another form of dissidence,
and being vastly outnumbered.
It is a game played alone
with various unexpected ghosts
along the margins of other events.
To remember the story correctly
is to be cursed with it forever.
Something left hanging
from as little as one consonant,
all the way to the end of time.
It is always all the same emphasis
as to the importance of someone,
becoming one’s own unimportance,
when everything else is said and done
that qualifies as bits of history.
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200716B
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It seems that try as one might,
one can never really effect replacement,
in any sort of like kind and quality,
as to something that would have been.
Try as one might, out of necessity,
to make all sorts of alternate arrangements
and failing that, attempting to fall in
to emulating various diverting habits.
Somehow the memorable instances
are so painfully few and far between
that they remain that way forever.
Though one always does one’s best
to bury them under multiple layers
of as many of anything as possible.
One always seems to be shoveling
something in, to fill in the abyss.
That darkness of unknowing
that follows knowing a little too much
and then not wanting to let go.
Exactly enough to cause one to feel
one or another forbidden emotion
as to wanting to keep something forever
when there is never any such chance
in a world of unending disasters.
Archeological traces being excavated,
and kept in the museum of one’s mind
after the dirt is brushed off.
Inscribed with that special sadness
that is neither noun, nor verb, nor word,
within those confines of language
that one is always struggling to escape
as if a gesture mine become paralyzed.
The combination of chance events,
ends up being the lock that won’t open,
locking away any unique possibilities,
as would never occur ever again
in billions of light years from wherever
we might have left some sort of mark
not so readily and easily erased,
but that too is only another mystery.
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200716C
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I know now
that I was never looked for,
by anyone,
after I was gone.
I was not the sort of artifact
that they wanted to collect,
catalogue,
and preserve.
I have known of archeologists
who have taken more delight
in what they could find
in garbage pits.
Being a sort of discard,
that was tossed away,
I might have had a story to tell
and could have been treasured.
There was no such curiosity,
that seeks to acquire
a strangely odd thing,
outside any normal taxonomy.
I thought I could have been
utterly grotesque
and beautiful,
to someone’s tastes.
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