Note to Self

I am my own equivalent.

I’m named after myself.

I’m someone who’s memorized a secret vocabulary

to describe the future.

I believe the world is alphabetical,

that it’s moving unstoppably from A to Z.

Of course, I have to remind myself

that we see only the hands of the clock,

not time, itself,

and that no matter how far we go,

it’s just the distance traveled,

but there are so many directions

it’s difficult to know

which way to proceed.

You can stand perfectly still,

but the commotion is your head

is a red radio

playing all the blue songs, at once,

a box of nails nailed to a wall of boxes.

Once, I got mad at my friend.

It happened in a car.

It was an accident.

I didn’t mean for it to happen,

but it did.

Most things happen that way.

Even music, even death.

Did you know that hummingbirds sing?

They sing to themselves.

You can’t hear them,

I can’t hear them,

but they sing, anyway.

It’s like attending the funeral of someone

you don’t know.

You’re sorry they’re dead,

but you can’t cry,

you can’t shed a tear,

unless they’re someone

who reminds you of someone.

Then you cry.

You cry your eyes out

because you can’t help it.

You cry because they remind you

of someone who reminds you

of you.

 

Posit, August, 2015