Meditations on the Mysteries of Life

Defoliation of Self

I sleep with the window open and the furnace off
It rests my mind

I love being alone after days out with people, or
Without them working outside defoliating weeds
And blackberries, truth be told I lost my trust in people
Long ago, Diagnosis: not very social

I work alone, talk to myself
Meditate with my eyes open pushing and
Pulling machines on wheels
Described myself as extroverted, the tests I took said introvert
In high school I earned a perfect score on reading comprehension
Not so high on anything else
Diagnosis: obsessed with self

Know a woman who swallowed glass, called for an ambulance
Why would you harm yourself and then immediately call for help?
I ask myself, why do one or the other?
Diagnosis: dangerous to self

You keep moving on from man to man wondering why they leave
You or you leave them after years together growing further and
Further apart
Diagnosis: unknown

I sleep with the window open under 5 wool blankets and a comforter,
By myself, I like my life, feel close to the spiritual presence of creator

A Foggy Night
1
The busses are all running late
Traffic is bad
Tempers are running short
The rent is due with nothing left to pay
What is a man to do?

My favorite thing to do on a night
Like this is to walk and walk
Think things through
Make plans
And this is what I’ll do
2
the night we argued and went our own
separate ways it was like this
foggy, congested, dark, and wet
neon light so inviting to lure you in
take advantage before letting you go away again
3
What does a man think about the night
Before he is put to death?
What does he feel?
Of all possibilities, what does he want for
His last night on earth? Who with?

Are these not legitimate questions to ask
Oneself on a night like this?
Why wait for a sentence of death?

You told me of the struggle to escape him
Surrounded body and soul, engulfed in misery
Running fast and hard to catch the wave away

When a whale stopped and spoke
Softly offered you a way
To freedom at his price, servitude for life
Which you wanted a guarantee, consenting

D
At the silent retreat
We did not speak words
From Friday night to Sunday noon

I wrote things out, whispered to myself, abiding by the rules
Captured life in the moment, briefly, transfused inside,
Then gluttony; after it was over we tried to speak

On the long ride home
I cried soft silent tears as we parted, silently,
Daring not to speak