Ask me, how do I spit out the spool
of myself? I choke on the uncertainties
of cues, my skin bears the black ink of
curriculum vitae. But the curve of my neck's
defiance, the laughing sweep of my arm's
assurance, the untangled tresses of my wonder,
even the blue-tinged shock of my eye's
curiosity - how do I speak such things? Truths
that matter can never be told, not because
I demure, but because they must
shine forth like light from ice.
And I'll reply: Say, I'll meet you somewhere.
Say, we'll talk, that's all, and for half an hour
in a cafe I will have no secrets from myself.
Say, that's what this is about, really.
Because I started out slinking through
love's swamp to find hope's diamond, carbon
confirmed to shape. And that is true,
but only a little bit.
So now I think, well, that's not it, the cut
is cracking open the hard shell of my
life. I compose myself so that someone else
can sing my harmony. And maybe that
is true, too, but only one iota. The depth
of my sea does not concern you. I spread
my soul's ribs because I like the bracing
breeze blowing through my chest.
Say these things, and I'll reply: you have
true answers, but truth is not truth until
it stretches taught between us. So
we dive the abyss of this for those
who do not write back. For the ones who drop
conversations without explanation, or regard
our lives without remark. For these people
who stroll by in mute indifference.
We do this to thank them.
Because we trust that they will do
no worse. We see their friendly faces
and take faith that they will be
silent. They could do worse, but they
will not. They will sneer not, nor set
out snares of lying wires. They will not
trammel us in self's temptation. No.
Instead their blank refusal, their
studied indifference, their curt dismissal
becomes the mundane wall against which
we spray the vibrant mural of ourselves.
In quiet they begin, and to stillness
they return. Yet in passing they invite us
to vandalize our own assumptions. What else
can we give but gratitude, and best wishes
for their journey?