August 2000

I Was Running

I was running
in place.
A Skynard CD across the room looked about to fall
-laid out, bent back, air-born again.
Sweat, blood and cheering
could not put me over
the top.
Grabbing and
pushing and
tugging
as much as I could but you looked out the window.
No one was looking up.
Not that they would.

Push and you push-
yet nothing seems to-

I thank the night for being dark.

Nothing to see. Nothing but my pushing
pushing
pushing.

I can’t get the image out - it keeps coming back:
bent over and uncomfortable
struggling to make a difference
looking out an open window -
open because no one looks up,
no one looks up for there’s
nothing
to see.

I catch myself starring:
Bound - haunted - by that half-meter gawk.
Stark and deep
recollections stir misplaced
thoughts of a past not quite my own anymore.
My losses piled high under the table in front of me

The trickle lengthwise
an afterthought to an otherwise thoughtless act.

Such is life?
Such is my life.
Bye-Bye.
Have a nice life?
But when is it gonna begin? Is it (has it?)
Anyway, it’s only another night.
Had it been day
the story
would be the same for either I am sure.

Two early cigarettes,
class and one cigarette
prolonged an uncharacteristic silence.
Cold, mid-Autumn stares -
cold self, cold night -
What had I done?
One symbolic act of futility.
One more child in the
face of exaggerated human frailty.

When am
I going to die?
Maybe not.
never?
neither.

I am not the only one who thinks I read too much (mostly.)
And? Her eyes are dark, reflecting regret.
One look the reminder of my imminent death.

So what if I cannot make it home for Christmas?

The Skynard is still on the edge
under a pile of artifacts,
a sweet mess