The 'infinite' bias ...

I want to believe

I have infinite time.

I don't know what I'll

Care about, with no belly

For hunger,   no   blood   for

Passion, no mind for  calm.  But,

I still want to believe that I'll always,

      ever, be on.

I can't see to my tail—to the day I was

Born—and that's fine   (warm placentas

Disgust me).     And I hardly remember

My father's   mom's   eyes.  But I still

Feel  her   press,   as  she held me; it

Remains.  And  I  feel so relieved—

Dreaming  that in  heaven she's

Still taller than  me, and she

Waits with those arms—

I believe.

I have to believe

We have infinite

Time; I love

And have

Loved

Too

Mu

  ch

     To

           Ac

                  ce

                       pt I

                             Ex

                            is

                             t O

                                  th

                                er

                           w

                         is

                          e

                              .

Value versus Impact ...

                 Murder                                                   and suicide
        often come                                                                  together—

      as acts,                                                                            of course,

    one comes before                                                               the other.

      But I think                                                      their under-thinking

        is common,                                                           and sensible:

           Once you devalue                                                  a life,

                  every life                                              (for you)
                        has an equal                   (neutral) pull.

                              All are real,
                                            but worthless:

                             Noises            seeking silence,

               Desiring peace                   while clinging to 

           their pulse's                                              violence.

       That's one thing                                                   I wish

    Suicides wrote more                                     in their letters:
“I'm tired                                                                     of living,
 and I hate us                                                              altogether.
  Which makes me think,                                       by the way,
     I'd love the whole,                                             really,

           if I loved myself                                    today.

                     Kisses; sorry for the mess.
                                   I wish the words
               didn't feel so           disingenuous.”

          Isn't that                                  beautiful?      
         It's the least selfish                       thing

           about a killer's                        lonely
                riddle:                     Knowing

                     that when       you die,

                          or make us die—

                              everyone

                                 dies

                                   a
                                little
                                   .

Freedom come ...

Children beg to play

In fields made of pits

And stitched with sharp sticks.

So parents shudder, “Aaayy!!

Be careful, love...” as

The light lows and thins.

But the children laugh. For

Their hands can break a blade

Of grass.

Their feet can unlock the bonds

of sucking mud. Their tears

Can make giants kneel—in love.

Parents fret, freshly remembering

Their own quiet losses onto

These brakeless creatures

Who are finding, first-hand,

The world's sudden

Nature.

But old, slow persisters—

Wrinkled so their scars are hidden,

Warmed by gray mittens—laugh;

Loose throat-skins

Catching on their breaths,

They ask:

“Now, how did You learn

What it takes to survive?

First your bone broke,

Then your friend died.

Remember that? Stumbling on

To where life has its ends.

So let them rip,

And heal. Let them

Drop, and feel.

Let them go,

And come:

Too Fast,

Too soon,

Too Confident,

Too dumb.

Let them own that

Pain past the edge.

That view off the ridge.

That bitter smell, disbelieving.

That ache-sick-sinking feeling

Of loss and preciousness:

Let them find out every

Now is an end begun.

For owning that—owning that.

Owning that is 

freedom come.”

Pool of senses ...

Everyone watches that insect

missing a leg, missing a wing.

                            But then looks away from amputees,

                   burn-skinned us's—too close of a thing

 (“Not me!” we want to say).

Really, it's a sad, safe life that

leaves a body whole.

We drop pieces behind us, wear parts away,

like words repeated until no meaning holds.

I only ever skinned my knees

   because running became fun.

   I might burn out my eyes one day

                      looking at the setting sun

                (and that would be a well-spent day).

                                                            I say “Hello” to a neighbor. “Hi”

                                              croaks back. A stiff morning voice.

                        I take his day's first words into my ears.

My memory will go, but for now it remembers this.

And what of my limbs? Not me.

Me, a pool of senses.

Clone them all? 

                         Only like me.

Or carve out my throat? 

                 Was me

        (and then just a still thing, 

                                      senseless).

A warm place...

“There's nothing business about this beer.”

I have to remind myself.

“Sometimes people just like that I'm here,”

I have to remind myself,

“Something about this-I-am is good,

Beyond what I've come to see:

A part beyond useful, helpful; that's

Enjoyable. Here in me.”

So I'm starting to teach myself,

As for a sullen child I might do,

“Just stop! Don't cry, don't doubt;

Say and know: who cares for you?”

          Who loves you in a quiet way?

    Who supports you imperfectly?

 Whose smiles do you remember,

Cast toward your eyes, for free?

“Even as you doubt them, they

Wish you well.                                       So there's a start:

                                                   Wrap their stubborn love for you

                                                     Around your stubborn heart.”

Why they discount day-old bread...

                                            “Fresh” out            of a relationship,

                                          a day                                          or two,

                                     You still have                  the echoing feeling

                                  That someone                         will kiss you soon.

                               But then,                        you're not “fresh” anymore.

                     Distinct from                        single, stable;

                    nor loved                              and bright.

                    “Don't tell me                           to get some sleep—

                    I've been singing that              song all night.”

                    Thinned (but not hungry).                     Restless and low.

                     “Fresh,” you can still                taste those words,

                      “I love you”—

                       But then nothing's by you,

                        and all seems             above you.

Bavacakra (wheel of life) ...

               "What is 

                        not me?"

     Don't ask that question 

                                    much.

I ate some food,                and I

shook some hands,           while

breathing     in a crowded room:

Her                 palm, someone's 

out-breath,   a plowman's pull.

All into   my skin, my lungs, 

my stomach  going   full.

  Little     points-of-

                        trade,
                               where I
                                        grow-                  or-        fade,      as

                                                         the         world comes to touch.

I was thinking                            so hard                   about where to draw

         The line—                      I didn't see anything          between the time

                                               I left that driveway and now,       this midway,

                                              where the road                   switches pavements.

…............................................................Rrshhhshhhrshhh—psshssshssspssh..................

                                              My! …          Was I even driving?               (if I

                                                am presence-of-mind               and       such.)

                                                I was definitely                               thinking:

                                                       “What is me?”               Don't ask

                                                            That question          much.