I itch.

it’s a twitch
I dare not scratch-
for that way lies

there was a time
my soul would
e  c  h  o
like an empty suitcase,
the open road.

Connection, Affection
are far too tempting

and suddenly
I see
unfolding the way all those
Coming-of-Age novels
warned us about
[with disdain,]
the refrain

over and over
again and again
before my eyes.

to my surprise,
I understand.

and yet, the grand
vastness of infinity
calls to me still

How to stand it?

Life is for Living
and when I arrive at my death,
out of breath
and late as usual,
and my soul finally
s.c.r.a.t.c.h.e.s. its way free
of this confining body,

I will           race
to that glimmer
at the edge of forever
and              embrace
the impossible echoes
of eternity

One thought on “itching.

  1. ‘Eternity’ is like this bright firefly I
    can never seem to catch.
    My hands bleed glue,
    but nothing sticks to them.
    Fury for hell dying
    with a whimper we are such
    profound outsiders with no mansion
    of our own.
    I still hum yesterday by the highway
    in the green gray and hilly city,
    following the footsteps of masters who spoke
    little, smoked much and sat consistently. Tearing
    at the root of paralyzed days, though handicapped
    my hands still reach, still paint, still dump such color as today
    inside my eyes at the zoo in my vault.
    I want everything I don’t.
    Lost like I’m walking in tall cotton.
    We are Saturday afternoon movie children,
    our eyes and ears and hands strained from the screen.
    I watch this in vivid detail
    but write of it little. I’ve cut through whole orchards
    of apple tress in my head looking for here but it is tiring isn’t?
    chasing wild imagination.

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