thursday, november 8

  1. there are experiences that bring you
    to an unusually direct and unvarnished consideration
    of your actual stature in life;
    between one thing and another
    my 37th year has been thick with them

    i was thinking: what exactly do i amount to,
    here in middle adulthood, after some years
    of whatever this has been?

    of the ideas of the self i've tried on
    and then hung up to fade on the walls of my mind
    few seem to have much bearing now
    i'm sure not a historian, poet, or teacher
    hell, i'm not even all that well-read

    on the facts, what i am
    is a declining bottom-rung technocrat, a little too
    self-taught and far too scattered to have attained much,
    past a surface fluency with the technical arrangements
    of a recently-dead past

  2. i drew pictures for a little while,
    but i didn't have the discipline to make anything of it
    i used to take photos, but now that just feels
    like pissing into the ocean
    i never did learn the guitar
    even my cooking is frankly bad most of the time

    it's strange to see all the ways you thought you knew
    how to write something on the world
    as hollow, as dull and rusted tools,
    as tricks of the light

  3. of course you can't write anything on the world
    not really, not for longer than a beat and
    on the scale of an ordinary life
    it's all so much dragging a stick through the sand
    in between the waves

    the world writes itself on you, mostly
    if some greater power comes within your grasp
    it's like as not you'll do monstrous things,
    at least judging by the powerful

    for inconsequence
    maybe i ought to be thankful.