subtext

Few have time for the stories

of the old, too much exposition,

too many tangential tales,

too much context to include

before a life can unfold.

The tendency’s to explain it all:

to become lost in the slights,

to recall the narrative so all

can believe the way it happened

to have happened is the way you believe.

I know I know I-know-nothing-

matters matters to me, I know.

I know the darkness is the darkness,

not a badge to pin to a green sash,

not a medal to intrigue a crow;

but I can’t accept the belief

I must believe in my death

to believe I will be happy, not now,

but later, when I no longer matter.

Yet this is the story I’m told.

This is the story I too often tell:

what I say matters if only to me.

I’ve listened to my blather for years,

traced each line like veins in my arm

in search of the next dull pulse,

as if some message is telegraphed

slightly ahead of my next word,

my next breath, warning my next

manifestation at the moment

all my stories have bled out.