When I signed up for this,
I was told it was my soul on the line;
that to do nothing
was as good as having nothing to do:
and that
was unfathomable.

I shot off
to dream with expansive relish,
despite all the problems they pound
on the forefront of my imagination,
to tamp and claim objective realty is better—
I don’t understand. Can’t
understand. For how much
more fluid and voraciously energetic
the locomotion of the lucid
dream!
Art is illumination, nah? What’s this
about seeing? Who decided that
was right?

There’s an aging cellar with some
serious vintage I’d like to tap into;
unceasing decision
to select those few things that dazzle
my soul into song.
It’s the sort of soul you have to bring
on sunset walks to smell the wild rosemary
that tosses from the forests
they butchered just beyond the white picket fence.
Beauty taints violence, renders it less
objective, the juxtaposition, the dissonance:
things fall apart
so they can come together.

I fathom I’m not alone in this home,
this world of ours, this mind of mine—
that there are more than just me up here
and I begin to grasp the extent
of myself. That more than me
makes me broad,
and I’m not ready to be
so broad? Not yet, at least.

I think you know what I mean.
And by you, I really mean me,
and please note: there are heaps of souls
far better equipped
to survive evolution than I.
I imagine those souls
experience much the same
daily dose of dissonance–
me, hyper aware, you so scared to call this home
to admit to anyone more than yourself
when things are less than peachy—
and by you, I mean—
you know what I mean.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and gives it meaning.

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