I looked this way and that, in hopes of seeing what to do next.
There were things to do everywhere I looked,
but none of them said “Do me first!”
and all of them said “Do me first!”
and I couldn’t choose.
They all looked important; they all looked meaningless.
And most of all, I was looking for meaning.
Which could I do and have it mean something?
All of them. None of them.
You see my conundrum, or more likely, you don’t.
I mean that sincerely,
or more likely, I don’t.
I posture and preen and present to be seen,
but nobody sees, especially not me.
I’m ready for my closeup,
but Mr. DeMille died so long ago,
leaving — just leaving.
And now what?
Do I sail a stream of consciousness to distant foreign shores?
or sing specific songs and weave specific tales?
Wax poetic or gritty realism?
Deranged philosophy or sane assessment?
Or abandon the words, scream a primal scream,
and race down the hallway to another life entirely?
No words? Why not?
I have no words anyway. That would be more honest.
(Observe, Earthlings, the rants of a melancholy baby
upon growing up to find he has been a child all this time
acting like what he imagines a grownup is supposed to be.
But then —)
I am a child.
I am — a — can it really be?
Hand me a stone so I can skip it across the water!
Show me the soil so I can push it about with my hands!
Is that a toy truck? Vroom! Vroom! Vroom!
I see it now, I see it clearly,
let me splash in the lake and run along the beach.
I am! I really am!
But I tire so quickly — but it’s a good tired.
I am exhausted, but it’s the exhaustion of fullness.
Finally, finally, singing songs of fulfillment and
writing meaningless poems full of meaning.
I explode, and
my debris rains across the land like confetti.
Here, in the waning sunlight,
I sob with unrequited joy
and rest with anticipation of tomorrow’s games.