Make and Model
So many times
In life
I have felt like either
The phone
Or the lamp
Sometimes
Little more
Than the empty place
Between them
I think we all have
That relentless
Lonely stillness
The functional beautiful boredom
Of just existing
If only we could learn
To feel it
Together
Rather
Than at each others expense
Instead
We seem to be
Strangers
In strange lands
Separate
Different
The same
Increasingly
Outdated
Every time
The door closes
I live among artists
Two of the greatest artistic minds
I’ve ever encountered
Live under my own roof
I’m no artist
Creative yes
The two aren’t the same
Give me tasks
Things to accomplish
A perceivable outcome
My creative side will flourish there
Large open unending
Blank pages
Fill me with dread
And responsibilities
But like all Bulls
I collect beauty
The Gypsies
The Wanderers
The life blood
Of an ailing world
It seems intent
On unraveling
On forever finding
It’s fault lines
I have done that myself
Once or twice
Really
I’m not too worried
Though my heart
Is broken
I know
The master weaver
The mender of all
He has more than once
Raised me to life
Re-animated
What seemed doomed to death
Maybe his greatest work
Lay just ahead
Maybe
It’s already done
My words feel too simple
Too silly
Withering grass
In the field of eternity
They trickle and trip
Like drunkards
Into my brain
At all the desperate hours
3 am
While my teething baby
Cluster feeds
While I try to radiate hope
Into the dark morning
My solutions
Like the rest of me
Are maternal
Soup
A safe place
At the table
Love
When I feel utterly spent
Or sour
Or when I wish
Someone else
Would do it
Maybe
One thousand years from now
When all the books have been burned
They’ll turn the internet back on
Someone will come across
One of my works
A dusty relic
Last years robot
Huddled in a cold corner
Give it a read and think
My God
Who was this self important quack
One can only hope
Until then
It’s casseroles
Telephones
From another time
Illuminated tables
Together
The sober
Swaying space
In between