There is a poem
trying to breach the surface,
some part of me chained
to the ocean’s floor,
fighting to break free.
I forgot how to live.
I can only remember
by forgetting.
the mindlessness of the mindful,
the folly of the scholar.
oh, the sage wisdom of the child.
stick on the ground:
a staff.
point the way.
it’s impossible
to be lost
when you’re playing pretend.
have you seen the confidence
underlying the imagined?
does the fool second guess himself?
the fool leads legions.
wisemen at the mercy
of his utter conviction.
you filled the well of the intellect,
stealing the water
of your self-belief.
yeah,
that reservoir of conviction:
long run dry.
I stared at the cliff’s edge,
and told myself
I was only going to dip
my feet in—
so tell me:
how am I up to my neck
in absinthe?
lord, help me:
I’m drowning
in obsession,
this liquid spirit,
like the Styx,
my psychic murk,
so acidic—
it burns me, it burns—
so why
do I crave it?
the self betrayal
of the poet.
radio silence,
the artist
gone quiet.
shut your mouth,
keep the food out,
but your words
in.
how quickly
did I jump ship—
haven’t written
a poem
in months.
did i dry the well?
it’s not hard
to tell:
gaunt eyes,
hollow shell.
I stopped looking
to the future.
instead of planning
my career,
fawning
over that
bright star,
I thought more
of how to fit
400 calories
into a single dinner.
a blessing
to choose
to eat less.
a blessing
to fret
over weighing more.
a blessing
to know this folly.
i will fall
into this trap again:
still,
i consider myself blessed.
I’m not a fraud.
I never lied once—
I fell, & fell hard,
but never hid the blood.
I saw the sickness
spreading through my marrow–
the blackest ink
in the most pristine waters—
I worked so hard,
& guarded this meadow
of my own making—
I tended to the Earth
& nursed her back to health,
so tell me: for bringing ruin
to my Eden,
how can I ever
forgive myself?
tonight,
i say enough.
binge, restrict:
the coin of self-loathing.
but my life is bigger
than being bigger.
isn’t that self love?
yea—
tonight, i say enough.
i
am enough.
and when you hold my hand,
my heart speeds up,
but time slows down.
your head tilts, laid on my chest,
& the turning of the earth: it hiccups,
if only for a moment.
and your laugh—
oh, your laugh,
I can only die happy
if that sound
were my last.
this love: it is not quiet.
it burns in my gut,
it needs to be sung—
to shout, to scream, to holler,
“Look, world— it is her. She
is the one—
the one
who is a full Moon
on the darkest night—
or, no— she is the Sun,
and I the pallid Moon,
and if I shine,
it is but her
borrowed light.”
Break your life into verse.
To run on this path,
or to stop; savor,
inhale—
step,
stop—
gravel crunch, silence,
eyes closed, heart open,
holding the Sun’s hands.
step again, stop.
there is a hidden movement.
a leap in every pause.
such speed in stillness.
such stagnancy in those who cannot stop moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving—
lips move,
but frozen on the same word.
find the symphony.
make a hymn of the cacophony.
rescue each layer from its doom:
to be swallowed by the whole.
do not let life be noise:
let it be music,
and please:
stop, and listen.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 