A Life in Progress

1.
sat like a king. a funny thing.
not a king by many, any means, but omnipotent
to the barriers of one's own mind. I've tried, oh
how, to manifest a difference, though on all
occasions, i return to a chosen state.
does it bode well for others that i might
declare such? billboards about me profess to tell of the
hip, of the now, but i outlast all these…
and then some, as my spaken worth affords a difference
to last. the table before me creaks under
the expectation that my beverage offers. i rue my attempt
at normality. i might attempt again in days to come, to
exploit a side character, nay trait that can be
explained by reason. yet 'til then…

2.
the air seems stiller outside my pain, as opposed
to within, where lies the complexities
of insecurity. the stillness cannot stir, nor chooses
to not do so also, for fear of reprisals. for in the
movement of stillness, it becomes a fallacy of fact. indeed
a fiction itself.

3.
i steel myself for the continuation of life, knowing that at
varying points i will become a molten mass of quivering forms.
knowing that any resolve might be outweighed
by incompetence, by ineptitude, by whatever…yet guaranteed.

4.
you can only enter into
somewhere by exiting somewhere else. no entrance
is merely a way in, but also a way out
too. both arriving and departing likewise, and
in unison, but in differing though equal degrees.

5.
as i look at a reflected age that
echoes myself, i see an aged expose of forgotten
youth. the look has become the norm, though the
mind recollects with vivid accuracy, a distant past, sometimes
hankering for its play. only retrospectively can life be
lived, then remembered. no amount of begging might transpire to
re-enact those long gone days. no servitude shall come to
pass and realise that very moment ever again. i sometimes miss
it, yet i'll miss my future too, for it will only be echoed behind me.


6.
i live in a city in my mind. my kind live
elsewhere. where though is difficult to pinpoint. people talk
about me and i listen on intently. i presuppose
their attention to detail that becomes city-folk.
i sit alone, though about others. they see,
yet choose to ignore me, as i ply my
wears. they talk of others, not there to back up
a truer version of the day, choosing to ridicule and
belittle the missing ingredients at will and whim.
men speak of golf and of friends, in a way far
removed from myself. i wonder as to placement.
mine…? theirs…? anybodies…?

7.
her age showed through applied paint, seemingly filling in lines and
lives, where the years have taken their toll. lumps protrude
and rolls of lard sit on a frame that had once stretched a carcass
about it. her golden mane became of a bottle, and her chin(s) struggled,
(sometimes losing too,) to retain its singularity. i am not
far behind her in the counting stakes, yet any notion i
might have of checking the process, is lost on me. and my bartender
can assure you of this…were you to ask.

8.
a woman closes her eyes and pretends to herself that she
sleeps. the flicker and rapid eye movement belies this moment,
for she cannot escape the day. too soon she opens them
and brings back sharply into focus a
truth that hurts, for she will look
in the mirror again.