And Everyone Is Always Moving
And everyone is always moving,
rushing from one half-hearted conversation to the next,
from an inkling of contemplation to the plethora of modern frivolities
ransacking the brilliance of our world—
going and going as if there were really somewhere to be,
somewhere more real than now.
In reckless abandonment the present is left
to rot with the already decaying past.
There is a catastrophic flaw in our thinking.
We are all chasing elusive moments, vividly concocted in our minds,
and we scurry desperately to create them, to make real.
It’s as though the realness of our emotions forces us to thrust ourselves
into extremes in order to find peace.
Depression, violence, anger, passionate romance, dizzying achievement.
In them we find ourselves superficially drawn closer
to the expectations we plant and allow to grow in our minds.
But we are all running an impossible race.
There cannot be a perfect translation of thought into action,
just as these words are an imperfect expression of my meandering musings.
But I am more at one with the present as I depress each key and type the letters
that obediently align as I attempt to define my reality at this moment.
But how long is a moment?
Is it defined by something other than time?
Is it free from the shackles of that colorless oppressor?
Is it the soft yellow light of this room?
Is it the smooth, light oil feeling of these familiar keys?
Or is a moment this entire project, this work, this soothing pastime?
Can a moment fit in between a “yes” and a “no”? A “maybe” and a “sure”?
Are moments the incomplete concentrations of sensory receptions
that can be separated, organized and then mysteriously transformed into a life?
To read my own words is an oddly comfortable meeting
with an old, wise friend. How funny it seems, now,
to allow my eyes to dance over the prophetic words
that I spilled in a tizzy of dissatisfaction ages ago.
To forget the power of language is to submit to the disorder of life
with its unpredictability which mocks the nauseating predictability of it all—sometimes.
I may never know him.
Why does that make my heart swell in union with a tide of reluctant tears—
tears that can still be easily held back
by seawalls of rationalizations and distractions?
The breathing, beating, crying, lusting, snoring,
wheezing creature lying beside me is the Greatest Paradox.
The source of emotions that send all my ideas swirling
in a desperate attempt to charm, provoke, anger, evade.
In between slow rhythmic exhales and comforting readjustments,
I wonder if this moment, this place, was waiting for me.
I love lists and plans. The scribbled out, coffee-stained ones are the best.
But this wasn’t on a list. And I’ve never been one for going it unscripted.
Why are some memories with you so vivid. so simple—frustratingly so,
yet warm and sharp with the clarity of freshly dried window?
Could a life without you ever be this bright?
I wonder if another could fill that space on a sofa,
in that seat, on the left side of the bed… Of course,
but a place in my heart has been permanently taken.
I don’t think I signed any release papers or closed a contract.
Just like that, you moved into a spot I’d never had a chance to arrange,
or neurotically rearrange, sporadically polish,
or even steal a quick glance into.