Skip to main content

Question Marked

I don't belong here
A mistake has been made
I was born already wrong
And the universe doesn't know me
I broke a rule in ignorance
Thrown down here with strangers
Miles from my front door
My crime would be forgiven
If he knew how much I hate this
I hate being me
In a world that denies me
A world without gravity
I listen to the background
Answering the question marks
Answers spilling from the box
This is not my business
I didn't mean to wonder
Show me where the switch is
I'll turn it off right now
Then can I go home?
Cobblestones and rivers
Nodding heads and quiet
Everybody knows me
They all say my name
The universe forgives me
From there I'll say goodbye
I'll write a letter saying
I'm home now
And I don't want to die.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.

The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
Staring out the window,
Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
They could not believe it.
I don't know what I saw,
If I’m lying to myself.
The day my brother flew,
I sat down on a stairstep,
Fingers in my hair,
Asking why I breathe.
He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
That was '91;
The answer never came.

This Is How They Talk

There's another part, always,
that doesn't want to go,
a shape more practiced
than my humble sincerities,
my tilted resolutions.

I forget to relax my knees,
That I should soften my jaw,
take lessons from the glass,
from the sidelong blurs,
and oblong silhouettes;

take in the everyday words
That clatter around my body.
I should brush against these threads,
learn their girth and texture.

This is how they move,
in great thrusts, driven
by asteroids and thunder.

This is how they talk,
in echos and gasps,
looking right at you.