If I knew what I was doing, do you think I’d be doing this?

If I knew what I was doing, do you think I’d be doing this?

It’s not rhetorical. If I knew what I was doing

I wouldn’t be asking. It’s a good question

for folks who have more questions than confidence

be still or be strong

or

be still and be strong

you pick

I catch the light and I feel it

it stops there

sure I occasionally share it

but that’s often incidental

meet me three years ago

please

I’m glad you remember

it helps me remember

in the streets (walking)

it’s so different 

it’s a world different

I’ve exiled myself

I don’t know from who or what or why

but sometimes it feels good

I wash my hands of it

it’s all dependent of the angle

and the angle is always changing

I think we could all (mostly) agree

it would help if I rhymed some

it’s not that I’m numb, I’m just not free

are any of us? - and from whom? -

[from ourselves, of course]

the lying tomb we cannot divorce 

PAUSE    I am a ghetto

ME: starring me - leaking. stinky. silly vapors

sleeping on my own crumbled newspaper manifesto-less manifestos

it happens every day

I forgot my lipstick!

I sometimes incorporate lipstick!

just because it’s a positive word to say

in those songs you wrote

it doesn’t matter what you think

just what you feel

stars. sequins. kangaroos. [lipstick.]

Those songs you wrote

I can feel myself inside of them. It feels like where I want to be. The spirits might contribute. But you always walk me back to my hotel. Why? I stare until I realize that I’m staring, and then - when the time comes - I can’t look at you. Even though it [I] still feel good. I cease to know the feeling unless I’m feeling the feeling, and then I remember the feeling as I’m feeling it, therefor: I’m doubly feeling the feeling. Again: it could be the spirits; but it’s definitely not just the spirits. It’s the spirits that connect us. Even when I’m not me. That transcendental feeling. Identification required. 

To Whose Destiny Are We Being Summoned

have you ever felt like a bloom?

I often feel like a stem

acknowledging the presence of the breeze

of the suspicious air conditioning

vent

nearby

(indifference)

I am the stick (perhaps

I use to be a stem)

plunged into 

moss

soil

medium

I am not conferred;

a symbiotic relationship:

I hold a plant clip [which - 

mind you - was never a stick,

stamen, or stem, but plastic]

[this is not my Purpose]

next to the stem

to statuesquely support it's apparent stature

[but in all honesty

in the hypothetical hierarchy

of the overall prevalence of this particular plant

(including its beautiful,

obnoxious blooms) 

which is higher:

me, or the plant clips?]

[this is how I feel]

and its blooms

on a good day

I forget myself

I just look up

and breathe

well

either way, I breathe

just like renting a room