You Want It

It's the same things

over again in this cyclical

track,

everything the same.

The same problems,

the same places,

the same attitudes,

the same love.

And I know,

I should stop complaining,

get off my ass,

and do something

to make my life

better

for me.

But I don't know how.

Because I have tried.

And it didn't work.

And I want to sleep for a thousand years,

wake up when the trees are beautiful again,

wake up under green leaf-light

and be beautiful.

I want thing to make sense

and be as they should.

To walk under stars

and across streams

and into cities

and out of them again

all across the criss-cross

roads of America

into the wild night

and into the sea,

because I am in a grotesque eternal

longing for its tidal embrace

and its smell and its beauty

and simple complexity.

Because there is nothing

here.

I'm not sure there ever was.

I'm not sure there will ever be.

But there isn't any breaking free.

Only a wicked captivity setting

in closer everyday

and I can't understand it,

because it is drowning me,

drowning me.

I want to stand on a hill in the wind

and the spring and look at what is here.

I want to sit up late with all the windows open

and listen to the air conditioners again,

and make sense of my life.

I want to write prose again.

And I want to kiss you, 

god, I want to kiss you 

in some soul-encompassing way,

I want to somehow kiss you and

make you understand.

I want to fling myself 

into the sea

and know it's all

going to work out just fine.

I know none

of this humanly possible.

Farewell to Ernest

And I get so sick 
of these feelings.


There is no productivity.


There is no moving forward.


There is nothing new.


I am doing nothing.


There is withering.


And it is happening so fast.

Pigeons

Why do we all do 

so many things that make us 

unhappy?

What in our bones

and our souls

says,

"yes, please,

be miserable. 

It is better this way."?

Oh, this unbearable

aching we all feel,

in some sadness ascribed to us

as mankind,

some unending flame 

in our bellies

which roils us around

and causes us such torment?

The condition of man

is woeful, often.

And I do not 

bear understanding,

I cannot feign 

content

under such a thing

as our own 

distress, 

our own unlawful 

misery

as humanity.

We cannot fix ourselves

of a condition 

we have not created for ourselves,

but has been thrown upon 

us as a cosmic reflection,

perhaps it is a glimpse of fate,

but it may be our

limited capacity to 

live, or to love,

or to understand

and become our full likenesses.

What resting in us, heavy

as lead,  numerous as bricks

in a cathedral, has caused such 

a feeling we cannot expel 

neither alone or with

a unity eternally strong?

For regardless

of love, of life,

of who we are,

there is a lingering

of bittersweet.

A melancholy so unbecoming

of our undeniable humanity.

A sadness that has steeped

for too long.

Taking Tiger Mountain

That was nice.

Sometimes it's just lovely

to forget whatever else

is going on,

and dance like a

crazy white girl.

It's great to 

let go of 

yourself for a 

little while.

This Time

And you've gotten me thinking,

what does it mean, anyway?

Why does it matter?

And I don't want to 

think of this right now,

I want to get dressed nice

and go out with my friends

and dance and have a good time.

Somedays

I wish I didn't know you.

Title Music

In the silence
there is always


"It isn't enough"




because nothing is enough.
nothing I do is enough.
nowhere I go,
no words that I write
no poetry 
is 
ever
enough.


This soul of mine
is eternally restless
and what if
this is all it ever says


"It isn't enough"


what if 
this is as good
is it's going to be
for a while?

Charu's Theme

And I guess what I mean is

whatever.

I'll try to be happy anyway.