SCENE OF A
I am sitting back in a chair reading books by the dozen.
It is the sort of thing I do between daylight and dawn,
that one elongated moment of 'No'. Silence. The fabric
of the day is rent by sleep by only those who do it.
With care, I choose another way. This thin candlelight
is burning up the air : it seems to hiss as I listen,
and there is little else to do. An itch in the ear?
A slight pain in the head, the slow paroxysm
of blurred eyes - these are things that go
towards delineating enough as too much.
Shadows are thrown on the wall, cascading with the
vivid colors of paintings and art. Every five hours
I am content with myself. The other nineteen are
filled with other things : hurt and anger among
them. I cannot, it seems, be satisfied with
anything good but Goodness itself.
A man - like this one - in a prison of his own longing,
lost in time and space, wears a strait-jacket of a sort
never worn before. It has no buckles, no sleeves,
no zippers. It surrounds the body with an ever-
tightening gel that slowly turns to concrete
around emotions and movement. It strangles.
It pierces. Veins burst as eyes bulge out.
Listen, if you will, to those howls!
This guy is hopeless, for sure.
After exile, I will walk the Bosporus Strait,
to the Mediterranean somehow. There will be
no alternative, and no other way to my own
salvation. I will learn to love the world.
I will savor everything.
I will accommodate
my own, singular,