Wednesday, February 27, 2008


My heart pounds every time. Louder, louder, louder. Faster, faster, faster. Can he hear it? I can. And I feel it. And it sometimes makes me short of breath. And sometimes my hands shake because I don't know what to do with myself.

So I blog and read poetry that seems like it's written about me.
On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

[Billy Collins]

Thoughts at the open window
That everything is transitory
Merely a simile.
Everything we see is a proposal,
A possibility, an expedient.
The real truth, to begin with,
Remains invisible beneath the
The colors that captivate us
Are not lightning
But light.

[Paul Klee Diary IV 1917]

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