a paddle in the river

i've been drawing the taj mahal for you

in my class that i'm quitting.

because you are you and i am me.

and there's all this stuff floating around

in the air, unspoken. all these unsaid things,

sentiments, beliefs. breathing in largely,

wholly, slowly, safely. with the bottoms rims

of my eyes burning like onions

looking at my red knuckles while sitting still,

completely unmoving, perched, fingers curved,

at the piano ready then lifted in mid-air in the

sigh before the concerto begins.

fingertips spreading fast over capital letters

and punctuation and pupils that move side

to side. i keep wishing i could look at myself

from outside my body and give her a good

little pep talk, the kind i know i need.

but instead i look out of the colored glass

window and think about nothing at all.

i keep wishing i could trade something

to have nadyne back like some bargain like

some little kid who'd make any deal, feels

guilty for being bad. i swear i'd bring her back.

listening to african percussion, feel my lips

congeal with spit, try to swallow take a

deep breath, fill my lungs though its my

heart that feels its full, no more room in here.

all my one liners i thought of in the car

gone now which makes my nose scrunch up.

and then i'm criticizing myself again and getting

angry. and i can't articulate myself and getting

angry. i don't think i could explain the

kind of headache that comes from death.

or the way in which you turn your face to the

sun and decide to be happy anyways.

and oh, nadyne again. and is it strange that

after halloween i thought about how i'd love

for her to visit me but she was in my dream

where i held her like a baby.

its like you keep showing up.

just like i keep waking up.

but this room feels brown and like a soft

brush against my cheek with sniffles in the night.

this room reminds me of christmas and

sitting cuddled on the floor admiring the

books, putting my fingers in between pages

and feeling the weight of 200 more and the pressing

of a book cover

and peeking at typefont. the letter A.

this room reminds me of cartoons and sober

late nights with few words and the piano,

again, from down the hall, in the distance,

unfamiliar notes as something is created.

creation. my hearts desire. the envy of.

ability. skill. hearts in motion. hand's devotion.

creation.

and i see my life's purpose like a paddle in a river,

like a deep pull through clear water, pushing

and gaining and finding the truth.

in a novel when you feel overwhelmed,

when you forget the people in this play

are actors on a stage and

what will the poet next will say:

your moment of truth -

a millisecond

but its under your skin

and deep in your pupils

its circulating your veins

and forever in your brain.

and this is what it feels like, in this room

like an early morning shower or the

way my sweater slipped over my head

sleeping with clocks ticking and eating

food on a bench.

and so not only to create,

but to find.

to look for; seek.

like death, like a room, like a book,

like my picture of the taj mahal i'm

drawing you. like quitting.

and i'm always giving myself this pep talk

and trying to be more forgiving.

where every wretched moment is a valid one

and puts me closer to the truth.

what i'm seeking.

where i'm paddling to: truth.

a real second of time

that comes in the form of an honest

reaction. instinct.

your impulse, something real which is

why we are breathing in largely.

wholly, slowly, safely.

last week i took up painting.

for nadyne. and for my truth.