the meeting place

and now you will hardly find me
in any the places i used to frequent,
because i went back in time
and erased all the days i didn’t like.
there were so many of them.
it took hours.
you can only imagine.
in retrospect, however,
a few hours is marginal in the big picture
because now there are holes in my history
that i can paint over later on.
when looking back, i realized how small i was, compact,
a complex ball of emotions
and emulating everyone and everything i loved.
i get a little reminiscent now and then,
and i guess i miss her.
who am i to say she’s not me anymore?
oh, that’s right. myself.
hunger and lack of productivity
combined with lack of sleep
lead to a precarious state of mind
in which i stated the above,
and it made me do all the things i did today.
i’m not done yet.
there is more to accomplish tonight and tomorrow
and ten years down the road
i will still look back upon them all,
wondering why i said those things
and closed those doors
and lost contact with you.
i’m losing it,
i’m losing touch,
but i haven’t lost everything yet.
still intact and beating strong
below the bones and breasts and broken skin
is the one thing that i have left.
it’s in working condition
after years of retirement
and being out of commission.
i took it out, polished it up.
good as new.
i’m still tearing myself apart,
though, and the amount of blood
never ceases to amaze me,
which is why i always come back.
rebuilding, new parts, oiling the old,
adding and subtracting,
de-fragmenting and deleting
and recycling my words.
i still haven’t gotten out west,
and am afraid i never will.
this is ginsberg’s america we’re living in,
if living is what you would call it,
but i’m not calling you on anything, no,
i’m not calling you at all.
i’m just cramming myself inside my brain
to wait in solidarity
with my cells and neurons and neurotic self
until the weather is warmer
and we know who you are,
or at least a month has gone by.
i know which will come first.
i’m still denying it, just the same.
i’m still ashamed.
will they paint over this part, too,
when all is said and done?
which works will show up
in the history books and anthologies?
you won’t find this printed anywhere but in the air
as it passes from tongues and lips
to waiting ears, wanton whispers
wafting through a world of wasted
wonders and fadingly pretty tears.
i’m sorting through my fears
and fixing those up, too.
things will be so beautiful when we’re finished.
can’t you wait to see the pictures and the poems?
well, they’re all the same;
this mindset is the bane of my being here.
it’s the queerest thing to put it off another year.

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