I live with the one who thinks for me.
that one that risks the all of it,
goes out into the void, blindly so
and grapples with the unknown,
the unquantified of nonspecifics,
the integrals but undeclared
and then returns in a gifting fashion.
I also live with the one of me
who presents thoughts,
supposedly stolen from the think of me
as a seamless supply of ideas,
a conveyor belt of endlessly presenting.
they then are also supported by the cast
representing the interior broadway show of ‘me’.
there is the prompter, the cogent,
the inner-speak whisperer, the illustrator,
the mentor of meaning, the contrarian,
the morality editor, the memorabilia lobbyist,
and of course the also-unnamed.
a basic busload of me’s invisibly on board.
can’t loose them, can’t convert them
can’t indict most of them either.
they all seem preoccupied unto their own.
I have not given up or given in.
we seem to travel on as the disguise of me.
if there is a group picture taken,
I am not ever seen straightforwardly.
I am hiding out inside, behind my eyes,
buried away behind the metronome of breath
and the onslaught of moods in passing.
I feel, at times, carried along,
irrespective of my feelings, mutedly expressed.
can’t get to words or interject
past the stampede of thoughts in passing.
what they have as language for me
is but jabber for then as fulfilling.
I have what they call longings, yearning
and, at times, a craving, passably they ignore.
yes, I do have a me,
a keepsake as a possession, I suppose.
but know this,
you can never know me
or even possibly know of me.
that would be sacrilegious in their terms.
but know you are me, where we are one.
all of the me’s are of dedication
but are also time-bound in frill.
where we are one is heart to heart of one heart,
mindfully dispersed as each me-preoccupied.
where we are one, before, during and after,
is, as if time were a wardrobe, worn to witness.
this will eventually return us,
undressed from me’s.
simply living as the one,
without any of this,
the me’s of each other . . .