Saturday, June 19, 2010

At My Desk

I wonder how to describe it. I have no idea, really. When I try to say it, it comes out wrong and sounds like I am whining and self centered. I try for the poetry and sometimes I think it works. I try for the stories but if I told you I really believed the plots and the characters then you would declare me crazy and lost in fantasy and you would be right. This poem sits in the middle of it and tells no stories. I sit at my desk, I write this stuff. I dream of a home that cannot be found anywhere nearby. This sky’s shade ignores my fate. The shade of the world could not care less. The shades of my lost loves fade and depart without a word.

At My Desk

Where I sit the sky
appears in a slit between
the slats of curtains
on the shut window
just above my head, and just
above the neighbor's
garage roof. Now gray,
but sometimes bluer
than my thoughts might be, this sky's
shade ignores my fate.

June 7, 2009 7:54 PM


  1. Someone once offered me cloud strength. Seems anemic, yet...and yet...comforting. As if, here is all that I can offer...tenuous, but ALL, and now yours. And so for you Christopher, I move my clouds in your direction...I un-gray your sky with whispy white concern, not ignoring your fate at all, but considering it, carefully. Alongside.

  2. That is indeed all that we have, from one exile to another.

    I know that this is not everyone's lot. I do not believe that it somehow is. This is really difficult to talk about without screwing it up, what this is. I don't mean depression though depression can come from it. I don't mean anything that ties to the world really though I am obviously in the world.

    There are certain things in me and certain things that happen that just scream wrong. They are convincing in themselves that there is a real question to ask. My heart is sure if everything was as it should be these sorts of things would not happen, so what is it? What is wrong? And since it so obviously isn't everyone's challenge, then why not?

    None of the traditional answers have ever satisfied.

    I had something singular happen to me and I "know". Even so I "forget". Right now these two experiences of exile and knowing don't seem to fit together. When I have the one I don't have the other. My knowing doesn't seem to be about here.

    I dream elsewhere too. I am so used to that I don't think about it often but I almost never dream about people I know here nor about places that are here.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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