clarity

Past Midnight
I strive for clarity, always
walking the empty streets to find simplicity:
rummaging every corner beneath the outstretched skies
lifting the dancing dust to expose the fissures of human consciousness
uncovering eye lids and pot bellies below cherry trees and uncut grass
passing sinking ships or swinging hearts of lost souls, beggars, or artists
but, I fear in my straightjacket I cannot erase the raw names, promised lands, cold faces that clutter my mind.

reflection

the red sky, still, sound
speechless, I sit thinking silky thoughts
of the heavy happiness we carry in frames
that leave us with trembling hands.

appearances

I'm momentarily back to write, or repeat, that things aren't as they seem.

We always want to create linear narratives to give sense to our lives; and for the most part, we're successful in creating these fictions that create a sense of destiny or fate-- that we're moving toward where we're supposed to be. But, a nagging feeling persists that where we are is not where we are and perhaps who we are is not who we are. When we tell our stories we necessarily fictionalize, draw connections where none exist, to produce meaning, or to give meaning. Sometimes, however, there is no meaning to what we do, or what's been done, though it remains important to invest some illusory meaning for the sake of sanity.