midnight 11/51/03

& maybe sanity is knowing you're insane-
this time, this year, these fevered
moments, blackwhite words-and talk
in moments, not in years
or times,

what with spring and all and the fast approach of grow
ing up & winter,fall,& i

i have as many layers as a matrioshka doll & i can cry
tears like brine i pickle all
the things that make me cry & i
store them in jars in the hinged glass panel of my mind

& sometimes i gape like a shoe without a foot,
just looking for the things that make me want & look & dream & write
& lie beyond the things i have

& then i hear the silence

of cambodia,
after the khmerrouge pierced them all on
sticks, the refugees,
are crying, they are small,
and angular, and sweet of face and
quick of deportation, &, & all
the synagogues in istanbul

are bombed & people die each day
of terminal cancer, last stage, cell
growth uncontrolled & they are dead & all their children cry

& i, & here i am with my growing
abstract similes to filter all the things i see
& feel & i, i shouldn't feel
this endless need to analyze when i
have nothing but the everything
that everyone has had-
& what's so special about
me that i have to write
it down? i don't i don't i don't i don't
i don't know yet.