I don’t just want to be in the present
—yes, the present, too
many ages all at once, swallowed, whole and in half-measures
by a great, big, engulfing wave
all the times I
never spoke, always talked, and you never saw
how foolish I was, how wonderful you were
how brief we both existed
together and barely as one
… It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
— Robert Frost, excerpt from A Servant to Servants
you are not sure what you see
‘is it a man or is it a woman?’
but what you see matters not
not to me
i do not seize to be
i do not exist to be
what you see
why are you crying?
has life not been fair to you—
not been good to you?
have you stopped beating for beautiful things?
are you company-starved—
yet company no longer warms you?
i wonder that myself sometimes…
you take in so much—
you must burst!
but it becomes everything or nothing—
every impression, every notion, every sound
humans turn to moving dots
cold and soft
floating across the fields of vision
while few remain in your heart
will they too float away
like yourself some day—
who ever held yours?
I do not believe in fate, yet I feel something fateful in every step I take.
i’d rather hear the roar of machines
than the inner beasts of man
i’d rather smell the burn of tires
than the quiet fire of souls
i seek an emotion that must be pure
not conflicted and cracked to splinters
yet i forego notions of completion
to become one with life
is neither one or the other
darkness slips into light
and i do not accept my mind
numbed to the facts of life
but indulge in fantasies beyond my measure
so terrible and alone
and when the last breath escapes
i see my body of work
and silently weep for the pain