I Had Assumed It Dead

February 20, 2014

“Failing to take root in my heart, He vegetated in me for a while, then He died.”
Jean-Paul Sartre

I am swept over like open bones.
The circumstances shatter
from unaware dust clouds,
making equal temptation and banal fruits
picked from my ennui.

If only ennui were an active force:
s’ennuyer: to be ennui,
to realize Gautama’s genius in exclaiming
Life is suffering;
my placebo has eroded
like the stomach of its abiding.

I wonder if there ever was a choice
between the talons
of ignorance and silence.
One cannot be both,
but inscribed in the medium
is what gives color to thread.

I would not mind being thread:
coarse, idiosyncratic,
not violent in my own cry
but slyly quiescent.
Thread reminds me of Sartre
in this way.

Perhaps my imagination
is intact after all.
I had assumed it dead
in everything but Lego blocks
and all the full notebooks.
When the worn ones burned,
my words echoed into diaspora,

and so did I.

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