untitled, mid ’09

This is something I wrote in 2009, one of the many poems not digitized. Thank you Moleskine.

[untitled]

Not all things that are ideal yield their desired effect.

Does that make the chase less worthwhile?

Perhaps so, unless the chase is the goal itself.

What is it, when one cries yet feels nothing?

Will some specialist cure it out of fear,

Or appreciate it as a sign, that, though nothing may be achieved,

It could be far worse?

What else is there to think lying in the arms of a mother

Who does not know her son, as he fears for her the knowledge of the night?

I do not know my grandmother, not in this life of hers,

But I hope to know her ghost in the next.

I could graph her life, create an expedition,

And publish my results. It would be so scientific.

If I still care, then it is not for the national bestseller icon,

But rather for the truth that is my nana, your bibi ji,

And see that culture is the embodiment of life,

And in its immersion, there is reality without equivocation.

Why should the historians be the only ones deemed qualified

To look upon the past? There is no regret in appreciation,

And all these modern couples should know better–

Even more so, the couple seekers.

I want to know the era

When the boys are there for the girls,

And these young ladies so carelessly and easily

Make their lovers feel so important.

Maybe those that wish for another age

Simply want to change their own.

Those that want to be someone else

Desire to change themselves for better.

And a few, just a handful, will change

As a result for the other.

Why quantify at all, when the answers are all there?

HH09

“not so brutal when you put it against a blue sky in october, is it?

“that’s what I thought.”

[huffs, turns, walks away. exeunt all]