Passion and a Lincoln
You spoke to me of passion,
That activist passion, pining and
striving and yearning to be free.
You mentioned the cause, the causes,
the multitude of the endless litany of
man behaving badly towards another man.
You mentioned my state, my statis, my static,
My overwhelming sense of self.
You mentioned this might be construed,
in some circles,
as a negative.
As a hindrance to my actualization
as the animal politic.
You mentioned those stairs and my speech
and the world we knew hurtled in another direction,
one without end, without rest, one with nothing but
the perception of failure, and adventure.
This world you inhabit, is it my own?
Will I ever inhabit a present address, receive mail
in the present tense?
Will I ever bathe in your passion
and sever the past? Enable a future by striving in the present?
Will birds cease to sing and will I stop driving a black Lincoln?
Will I ever be able to peacefully sleep on Sunday night?
Will I sit by the stream, the understanding waters, and dive right in?
At times, I don’t even recognize me.
The aches in my bones seem foreign, the crackling knuckles are anothers,
you are of another time. I watch myself as if a nickolodeon, detached and out of synch.
Will these be the last words that I write in this lifetime, or the first I write as another?
Another risen figure stumbling from the rebirth. Another time as another.