Thursday, October 09, 2014

incomplete
blossoming
of Charlie Smith

by Roberto Lavidez

I’ve 
compared
notes with
fools and
found 
myself
wanting
I’ve taken
too many
things
seriously
for example:
that there is
inherent
seriousness
in everything
if we can 
just locate it
it being
our duty
to try
it appears
we’ll be here
just long
enough
for whatever
the thing is
that knows
no human
reason
to have
its say
everyone
knows that
the world
still indifferent
to special
treatment
grants itself
compensation
for the trouble
it’s gone to
what are
they saying
you wonder
and remember
that was
what you
wondered then
I’m not
surprised at 
wasted days
whole seasons
spent in the
wrong house
I still
don’t know
what kind
of man I am
I slip out
among
the buds
and incomplete
blossoming
I was
thinking of
a woman
I loved
who wouldn’t
love me
I thought
I would
never get
past this
I sense
the phantom
musculature
surrounding
old love affairs
now warped
and peeling
like wooden
tennis rackets
better a
quiet nook
uptown
a room
with faded
yellow light
and Monk
on the piano
nothing
to do but
turn around
when you
get back and
they ask
you say
you had
to be alone
with my
fixations and
night sweats
rearing from
the dust
and acclaim
of dreams
I could
tell you
I am
tired of
marriage
of ambition
and effort
but who isn’t
and how
would that
explain
my survival
and make
its triumph
touch you?
sometimes
you wait
a while
for the bus
the bus of
happiness
probably
just now
passing
the fried
pie hutch
or crossing
the stream
like an
old lady
I didn’t
know
I could
grieve
love’s loss
so long
I had
no idea
I want you
to know
that my life
is a ritual lie
and that
I deserve
to be loved
anyway

©robertolavidez2014
















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