more than an amalgam of voices
images fly in a mad pastiche
the connective threads flit out
like fly fisherman in rivers of dream
casting lines to catch more
than what makes up my world
lost in what to say
I cough a stammer
take another drink
mumble another inanity,
“Yeah, right, what a game – – “
then like a squirrel frozen
halfway across the street
not knowing, like Macbeth,
to go or return, I flee
so much goes by – –
thirty years and still
the same play
nothing to say
on the events of the day:
which celebrity is fucking who
what Fred said down the hall
what television show is so hip
It hurts to hear the delocution of my soul
I can do nothing with the words given me
no one hears the words I say
I move to a corner of the room
glance at the cover of the one book I see
a burly man half-clad in the arms of a woman
I heave a half-smiled sigh
eyes focused between here
and somewhere that does not exist
(December 2009)
subtext 