I find empty
sits beside me,
even as me.
We, seated,
amongst the unclaiming.
We make plain and natural
our business.
We are going nowhere
since enough of what we do
is everywhere else but here.
We are waiting
to convert our incessant talk,
to make religious discovery
out of our otherwise
sacrilegious noise.
Expeditiously,
the we of me,
occasionally finds
empty has temporarily gone.
And now is replaced
by my new friend, discovery.
All of a sudden,
I, that is we, are busy.
Discovery has brought me lace
in medicines of exotic symmetry.
Ebony, now too
greets me as a friend.
Discovery has made silk and steel
into verbs for me
and leads my speech
to finely woven narrative actions.
Discovery though,
makes me hungry,
but discovery eats alone
and so do I,
so very alone but not empty.
Usually, when like this,
I eat from a nowhere pan
of fried and crispy anguish.
It is too cumbersome
to long endure
yet it is too bothersome
to eat out of expectation’s call.
And so I have a dismal snack
of nervous fats and leans,
abashed in shallow bowlfuls.
And I wash it down soberly
with liquored disenchantment.
We, that is the we of me,
abandon any idealistic thoughts
and forsakes any romantic feelings
as refuge during this meal,
but I do belch to myself
with a connoisseur's detachment
as later in the form of a next then,
comes calling.
Discovery as my muse,
has not returned again.
Ebony has gone political in my view.
The lace has become a soupy mess.
Steel's temperament is for now
much too brash.
And silk begins to remind me
of mucky memory days.
The life of my verbs has become,
let’s say, professional lushes,
while this night's speech
is to an audience of cloistered voids.
And actions, my actions,
well, our actions,
are simply make do anachronisms
keeping me as amber
where I find empty,
not a fluid state of being
but solidified of being in time . . .
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