A Signpost

The old sights and sounds have my mind fucked, furious and forgiven. Revisiting like running, remembering the escapist. But my feet leave prints on the cement like a shadow in a cave and I want to return her question.

“Do you see me? I mean, do you really see me?”

But I don’t see her. My eyes perceive form but my mind doesn’t always connect the galaxies of truth found in her ancient human frame.

I am like the sinking of stones and the man drunk in his clothes, dying of cancer before Christmas and I want to sing curse words into your ears, fuck, fuck, fuck, because it’s the only honesty I can spare you. Why speak if all is lost in its translation anyway? What are words but stark signposts? I’d rather whisper and spare the matter of air my ignorance.

Another kid cried and cried and I knew nothing of what to say, his legs shaking, fingers clenched against a steaming cup of tea, shaking and steaming, his face became clay, desolate Desperation the potter’s hands.

“I... I... I don’t know who I am anymore...”

And I cried with him because I understand the frustration of reinvention and the oil needed for the mechanics is hard to come by and the essence of Being is hiding too and I wish I could steal your pain but I caused it and it’ll only make things worse. I want to help, to give, to get high on transcendence.

I touch his hand and listen. That’s all I have to offer.

I have no beauty, no love to give, only memories and melodies like cheap elevator circuits. Elevators without electrical pulse. Ask the simplicity. Ask yourself and the tree with the sad graffitti smile on it. Ask the rolling dust from whence we came. Ask the dreaming blind man and his broken cane sniffing up streetcar walkways. God, I respect that and the liberation of nothingness, emptiness, soundlessness, going...going...gone.

Zoom, shroom, boom. We count like monks in meditation, all the ways to complicate ourselves, our lives and and and...