“Where Are You From?”

I can’t say.
Here, where I am now,
you see me, and I see you,
but no one sees
where I am from. I cannot see
myself here. I am not myself

Who then, how then,
why, then, am I here?

Do you see the homeless man,
his hands shaking,
panhandling for change?
See him.
See that he and I
come from the same place.

Do you see the nameless wild-eyed cat
perched or trapped on the window sill,
certainly not in, and not quite out?
See her.
See that she and I
come from the same place.

I am not from here,
but I am here
to see
the man without a home,
to be
the cat without a name.

I come from the unknown
or from nowhere, or from somewhere
I’ll never know,
and I leave here as a great fool leaves,
I leave here like leaves of sage,
lit on fire to leave a circle
open, broken, only able to ache
its way whole.

I come from where I pass through
where my lips pass from speech
to rapture.
Yesterday I walked like a camel.
Today my feet will not listen.
I have tried to walk in a straight line with them;
they can do nothing but whirl in circles.

I come from what I dance around,
what the wind and I create in our movement:
that’s what I’ve come to move into.
See how this creation creates the creator.

See, this body, it lives to leave,
so I’ve come here to move through here,
back to where I am from.
See me as I walk away,
moving forward, walking back.

See me as I pass the ones, so many,
who’ve forgotten where they come from,
that it is not here.
See each one.
See all these, and see me—
we come from the same place.

“In and Out”

After too long locked up in confines created by other people,
It is best to confine yourself to yourself,
To close the door and lock it, and wait.
Only then, you insist, can you create.
But wait,
What is this feeling seething within you, ready to erupt up and out?
A feeling of confinement, enclosure, entrapment:

You have closed yourself off to open your heart,
Only to feel your soul contract;
You have set the trap to catch the Muse unawares,
Only to fall into it yourself;
You have confined yourself to yourself,
Only to find rejection of yourself at your core.
Yes, you have.

Now that the door is closed,
And you the one who closed it,
You need out,
You yearn with unwavering intensity
For some taste of something alive
To feed you
Into something like Life.

Out, out!

The sun is shining, water is flowing, people are dancing:
Somewhere there must be someone whose aliveness
You can feed off, some of whose lifeblood
You can force to ooze into your waning spirit,
Be the waxing moon to your crescent lack,
The saving grace for your present attack of disarray and disengagement.
Someone out there, surely, will save you from your self-induced self-abasement.

Out! Engage!
Get out of yourself,
That’s what they all say.

Going out! Being out-going! Talking to everyone you meet on the streets—
Words, words, words—
You don’t even know what you’re saying, but you’re out,
Going, getting around, walking around the city square,
Around and around and around,
Talking and using so many words,
Speaking to so many people.

Too many people!
Too many words!
You feel like you’re spinning around on a carousel,
Going in circles!
Around and around and around,
You’ve been out for too long,
It feels like years and years.

In, in! Disengage!
Close the door and lock it,
And wait.
Only now, you insist, can you create.

Now you’re in,
You’ve closed the door to re-open your heart,
You’ve locked the door to unlock the window to your soul.
Now you’ve done it,
You’ve finally done what needed to be done,
You’ve made it in:
Now there is nothing to do but wait,

Nothing at all
To do
But wait…

And so you wait.

Fiction: Plunging Into Myself

This morning I am feeling willful. No longer do I long for the singing birds of poesy to stir my heart and soul. No. This morning I will begin to understand myself through the power of will.

I have waited too long for no one; Now I seek myself; I pray I do not find no one.

I will not rest until I understand why I suffer from this invisible gaping wound in my chest. What is it to wait for no one? What does it mean? Is no one God? Is God no one?

I cannot stand any of that babble this morning, and I cannot sit here and spew it. I am disgusted with it all, and I am most disgusted with myself. Yet I will be myself.

No one will take that away from me.

I will be myself by creating myself. In creation, I will find myself. My self will find itself. No one can stop me, or only no one can stop me. But who is this no one? Did I not say I was done speaking of it?

Now I speak of someone: myself. But of whom do I speak of when I speak of myself? Is the self the invisible gaping wound, or is the self that which heals the wound through visible forms of willful creation?

Can the self heal its own wounds? I must be able to. If another tried to heal me, I would not accept it. For this is true: what the other believes is healing wounds the self like no other. I would spurn the other, even if it were the blue-haired sea-creature I once let bandage and hold me. No. I must hold up these wounds to the light and let the darkness heal them.

I will understand all that ails me and I will heal all these ailments through knowledge, through understanding, through passionate understanding and through intense personal knowledge.

I will not stand back from myself and heal myself like a doctor from the outside. I can never heal myself from the outside. For this is true: to try and heal oneself from the outside is to wound the truth of the self within.

Instead I must plunge into myself to meet what explodes out of me.