One poem that can say it all?
that can stitch together the words everywhere,
and not just the words, but the everything?
--thoughts and feelings, infused with lyrics and poetry and sounds and smells,
and the taste of sea-salt caramels still in their mouths, with paper wrappers all over the floor - all over the bed - in a mound,
"chocolate candy, Jesus Christ"
the smell of a coffee shop in the morning, fresh scones out of the oven,
of shampooed hair, soft skin, a sweet familiar perfume,
"a little bit of everything..."
of midnight conversations and dreams,"if you dare, come a little closer,"
your heart's desire is searching for you, while you search for your heart's desire
"just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it,"
walking on the High Line, kissing in the streets below,
and on bridges and in the quiet woods and under waterfalls
dancing on the Boardwalk, with the scent of french fries in the air,
swimming in the icy ocean, alive and new, on top of The World, and ready to conquer it,
confident and shining and smiling,
and at night, a full-moon backed cityscape rises over treetops atop the starlight--
snippets of time,
painted with bright colors that run outside the lines,
by a messy schoolboy artist,
coated with flavors that make it seem there wasn't such a thing as sweetness before
--in love, in lust, in laughter, in friendship
pressed together in a wild dance,
playful and funny and serious and passionate,
the curve of her lips he traces with his finger,
a dimple that smiles,
sung to one another other,
first whispered sweetnesses,
and then spoken more loudly,
to make sure its not a dream--
[at the same time
The Strain lurks
it grows, the infection strengthening, chipping away at everything in its path
--at the same time
sobbing in the corner,
drenched in a sweat of deep pain and fear and self-loathing and self-doubt,
sad and alone, anxious and afraid,
the gray creeping steadily outwards, enveloping,
steadily draining out everything else--
And this part doesn't feel like it should be here.
Like, "You're in the wrong poem, Buster."
I put it in square brackets. I thought about deleting it.
But I didn't. I can't.
Because it's here. And its been here all along.
Part of the story. My story.]
See. I got lost. It got away from me.
There is no one poem.
There is no one vessel to pour it all into . . .
so I can let it all wash over my soul, feel its power and beauty and depth,
see it all at once before me.
gaze at its perfections and imperfections, the beauty,
the pain, the right, the wrong
There is no one poem. At least not one I know how to write yet.
I'll have to try again.