Do Am Is

Staged. He produced as he expected. Because he did it, it became him. He became himself by defining. Called himself himself and then that was what he did. He was what he was because that's what he did. So a doctor doctors and is not better than an itinerant cart pusher because both of them do what they do. They are in fact the same, but the one also includes "busy and important" to what he does while the other adds "does not care". This one says about himself, "I am a health food advocate." and that's what he does. This one is a writer. Some have more than one thing, but they are still the singular. Doer. Am what he does. Has what he is. Like chaff, the man dies but what he did is harvested and claimed by others. The doing wants a body as a stage.

About That Something Else You've Been So Sweaty to Realize

I got something in my electrons that was supposed to go to you
(the God of the Atom does not make mistakes like this one)
and though I tried not to look too deeply into the meaning
I couldn't help to notice that you are quite out of alignment
and subject to a recall, though this has not been realized
on an official level, merely suspected as an antidote
to the deepening miasma that has you currently cornered.
Your concern, it must be comforting to know, has been noticed
by the All-Knowing and responded to. The fault actually
lies with me and my inability to stay focused on anything
that is not me for very long at all; one could even speculate
that I am completely unaware of anyone except myself,
which is the purpose of this whole affair and why my face,
usually so beatific, has been so apparently petrified of late.
You can imagine my delight when I looked in to my usual
porthole to see what was mine and discovered that I am not
in fact going to be much like you after all, and that you
could only know by how much if I chose to broadcast
something else about your perspiration that you did not
already announce in your own fashion in the place you know.

One Thing Happens

Floating through the day, bumping along the ragged terrain of depression, I can hardly get myself to feel like I matter. I feel trapped in someone else's idea.

Hemmed in by the best intentions, meaning well, laying trap after trap, front-loading guilt...I'm sick. I'm sick with what I am not.

One thing happens and I see. One thing happens and I collapse.

Nothing here but a bed of sand where the water used to be. And the boats lie up against the dunes. And the living get sick and move away if they can; die anyway.

Come and see the smile! Come and listen to the stories of fun! Come and see the treasure! Come and see what meaning makes of a man!

If I love you I know what you are. If I love you I know where you are. If I love you I know what you do. If I love you we are becoming each other. I love you.

If I say I love you I am waiting. If I say I love you again I am ailing. If I say I love you ten times I am eating you. If I say it again you turn your face to the wall.

Hunting at the edge of the tall grass, I know what you are doing. I know who you are already and I know what would be best for you. I will control you by my fear.

Because you said you would stay but you didn't. Because you said you believed but you sinned. Because you wanted to grow strong but you let me taint you.

One thing happens and I see. One thing happens and I collapse.