'I dont want to walk around the block and face another night
I dont want
to find out that youre engaged, imbued in, lost to someone else
somewhere youve been thats not to do with who I imagine
you to be.
I dont want to face the trees that I felled and drag them up the
path thats sometimes an obstacle race of ants.
I dont want to face the present moments clock that beats on rhyme
that reminds me of the past when time seemed to run in parallel lines
and endless time to build a life.
I dont want to walk around the block and face another night in
solitude munching on lettuce; which by the way I enjoy to munch, dripping
with olive oil, virgin at that and that other one with the omega 3s
that takes one back to the sticky little bottle made of glass that threatened
cod liver dosages.
I dont want to fill another page of writing with words that ramble
wheres the poetry? The flights of fantasy? The blue black nights
with Harbour lights on ferries, the first journeys into wet kisses to
flying hair and arms around one another. The name lost, the face but
the enveloping arms still signifcant like certain authors, poets, persons
whom one can hide under layers of the survivor of this and that, that
occupies too fixed a place while the pithy, the darker course, the not
so well lit, so easily relied upon to come up with meeting ones
expectations yielded up the feisty stuff; like the grain that gets under
your finger nails when you brush the dirt off a pitchfork thats
just speared a spud.
I dont want to not want to find what resides there at the bottom
of storm water drains and at the bottom Harbourside swimming places,
the grit that troubles ones shoe enough to untie the laces
I dont want to not recall the Velasquez, the Goyas; in the Prado
I dont want to not remember the surprises in
Paris and the silken woven shawl someone I loved brought me from Venice
I dont want to have to pull out the vaccuum cleaner and observe
the change in attitude that pales in comparison to the slight degree
of indifference in the state of the carpet after Ive pushed the
plastic suction head back and forth.
I dont want to spend another moment averting my gaze from all
of the incongruities in my mind and in my surroundings that assert they
would be different if only the means would surface.
I dont want to not remember other days when those close to my
heart still were alive; when they too sought after each others
presence to make meaningful their world; when that far from perfect
world inhabited their minds.
I dont want to forget their eyes the life wherein they
found themselves without choices that would give to them; return to
them their outlived youth they would grow old; and yet they kept on
© Janice Slater 2003
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