ADMISSIONS

I left everything at the shore because I was happy there on a day there were no reports of chemical warfare.
[If this were a Pollock painting, chart the red undercurrent, then the blue.]
Happy = not needing anything else
[except maybe what we purport love to be
that velvet container to climb inside, memorize, and transport to a ship bottle to ward off the blues
one’s inner horses stopped or stuck. Unattended.
The ability to do anything definitive or fun with the confidence of performers.]
Now, there is even less—silk running past the bullet-proof glass we live behind, passwords that no one remembers but that can easily be hacked.
I don’t want to be so honest, but if I’m not, then everything stays the same, and there is no poem that can perform minute miracles of attention and surprise, a future pleasure, a waking up, if needed, or ability to sleep.
I am writing notes for the suicide to convince otherwise.
The paragraphs will be filled with sky and there is a repeating theme of the warm sunlight when riding in the heated car in winter, a white color block in a Rothko.
Somewhere someone is starving. Somewhere someone is lost. Bleeding. After the earthquake [the ornate ceiling paintings have caved in] or the retaliation.
Someone is praying
in an unknown language of piercing sounds.

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