I was sitting.
I was sitting in my room, alone.
I was sitting in my room, alone,
connecting myself to everyone else somehow.
i say somehow cause i don't know how and this 'how'
is irrelevant, because now is all i need, when i feel
people inside of me, outside of me, around me.
I can relate to people better when i'm alone, but
i breathe easier when i'm around other people, but
i'm more comfortable by myself and connected
than i have ever been when i'm socially relaxed,
because loneliness is my social lubricant,
and company keeps me distracted.
It's hard to love people when they are with me,
because the moment invariably leaps into my mind
and encompasses my awareness with all of its
bright shiny colors of action and i dance around
with people and enjoy them and their words
leak into my ears and lap the edges of my brain
with slow waves of something that i can almost call love,
and these sensations make me wonder what the big deal is about sex,
anyway,
not that i've ever really experienced it, but for me, words and
emotions
have always been more orgasmic than any well-curved body.
But maybe i'm just weird like that, because men aren't supposed
to be turned on by words and love, right?
i mean, we're all about the legs and the thighs and the groping,
so maybe this quiet, reserved, hand-holding love
is just another quirk in my personality,
something strange like smiling every time i hear people
accidentally speak in alliteration,
something strange like enjoying late night star-filled boat rides
more than any party i've ever been to,
something strange like writing poetry.
But poetry is what dreams are made of,
or maybe dreams are what poetry is made of,
but it doesn't really matter, the point is
that everyone has dreams, and if dreams equal poetry,
then everyone writes poetry, all the time.
But that's not true, at least not literally, and i've never been
the one to get overly metaphorical, and that whole train of logic
was probably just an attempt to convince myself that i'm somewhat
normal.
But i know that i'm not, because.
because, because, because,
because i want to live forever and die tomorrow,
because i want to do an irish jig while sleeping and eating cheesecake
all
at the same time,
because i want to make love in a clear airplane as it plows through
thunderheads,
because i want to be a meteor, not in any metaphorical sense, i just
want to
scream down
from the heavens with fire making a beautiful nimbus around my smiling
face,
because i want to love wastefully,
because i want to have a house without a roof so i can see the stars
and
dance in the rain,
because i want to never have a complete sense of comfort,
because i want to live in trains and eat from dumpsters,
because i want to live in a comfortable house and eat from my own
garden,
because i want to know what i really want,
because i want to never figure myself out, ever—if i did i would bore
myself
terribly
because i often scream when i'm relaxing,
i often dance when i'm mourning,
i often cry when i'm ecstatic,
i often dream when i'm awake
i often concentrate when i'm asleep
because i'm giving my heart away as i write this,
i'm losing my individuality,
i feel myself melding with some sort of world-consciousness that i
don't
even believe exists,
because i can accept the presence of something i don't believe in,
because i don't understand contradiction,
because i contradict myself all the time
because contradiction is the essence of everything,
and i don't understand how something can be undeniably true,
truth with a capitol "T," unless it proves itself wrong,
and i prove myself wrong all the time
because i don't think before i speak
and i don't speak before i write
but i write before i think or eat or drink or live or love,
and that's why i'm not normal, because my entire life,
this whole fucking existence of mine,
the claim i have to be on this tiny little planet,
is nothing but a series of pencil scratches
on a tiny sheet of paper that i have left out
in the rain and the paper is soaking and the words are
flowing off the page and into the earth to join
all the ores and lodestones of graphite and that
is the essence of me,
that is the essence of this poem,
the essence of this poem is me,
and i am nothing but this poem.