I, like many, self consciously
live in my own self-city
filled with floating sensory input,
somewhere between an air popper
of ideas bursting forth,
a cotton candy machine
of desires delighting with attention,
a carpenter’s nail bag
of future responsibilities,
soon pending then hammered,
a loud stairwell of inner voices
all talking at once,
a spacious secret garden
inwardly impressive
with the power of silence,
and, hard as I try to avoid,
you.
Try as I might
to be solely self involved,
to construct and deconstruct
each storyline
I can possibly take as personal,
And yet, there you . . . are.
You must be some form
of empathetic humanity-speak
I can’t dismiss or diminish.
I hear with my ears
and you speak from my heart.
I see with my eyes
and you look to light up
every scene upon entry.
Whatever story I tell myself
as real,
you immediately intake
but not as consequential,
more as an opportunity to either
immerse, embrace, create,
surrender or complete.
Why do I bother having a life?
It has gotten to be so,
that where ever I go
whatever I do
however intense
or complicated it can be,
there you are
and it’s me in this morass
and secretly, you in me.
It feels like a kind of
You-Tube-schizophrenia.
Its me, and within me,
its me and yup, you!
It’s getting to be commonplace
within my awareness
that I am now duplicitous by nature.
It’s what I would normally do
and then there’s you.
But I wanted to be me.
I had all the cultural input,
I had all the parental conditioning,
I had all the friends and enemies,
the emotional tattoos and traumas
to solely become a formidable me.
But no, I had to soulfully become you!
All I can essentially do well these days
is secretly channel you
and still call myself me.
Hey, it used to be just me . . .
(and you),
and now
it is just becoming me . . .
(as you).
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