We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Rest in peace.
What does it mean to be so soft but so full of fire? To hinge between those things? Listen, I’ve been waging war for years. I’ve been fighting with hot fists. What does it mean to live in fever but try to stay quiet? To wait? To love people through the static. To never have enough limbs to build the bridge you wish you could but to be unable to unpeel yourself from how pretty the other side of the chasm still looks? It wasn’t the light. I didn’t get it wrong. I’ve tried to make math of this. To quarter it, to show people the scales, how to measure them. Something always slips, keeps spinning out.