I visit your prison
as if ours interface.
upbeat between us, has the initial response.
maybe there is a comparative view exchanged
without words being spoken.
familiarity makes the space blindly sacred
to the moment without further insult
to the extent of the circumstances.
we don’t speak about familiarity.
we are all about high contrast
even if it only imagined.
limited sensory range provides the walls as obvious,
but even emotional kept-ness restrains.
habitual convention describes the nature of the sentence
yet creativity never even got arrested.
innocence is somehow strapped with community service.
everyone has been at the wrong place,
some of the time.
each of us has a keyhole of imagery, held secretly.
the big deal was never about space and time anyway.
whatever the external, as method,
the discovery of spirit was/is the prize.
not a kept prize but a living-it-alive prize.
so I ask,
how do you get out without being noticed?
you don’t even register as missing.
I know you go.
it is clear to me that you get away
but I don’t know how.
look, I am not a snitch
but I would like to be in also.
it isn’t like you get to be in solitary at all.
you go through all the same routines as I.
but damn, you a sneaky bastard,
and get away with it.
look at me eye to eye
and tell me that this is not all true.
I thought so.
you can’t look me in the eye
and not be real from there,
that place where you go
to get away and be.
damn . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment