Objects

Some days I just don’t have the words

And I’ve nothing of importance to say

No mammoth revelations or shifting beliefs that could permanently change my foundations yet mean jack-shit to anyone else

Some days the poetry flows

Others, the inanimate object holds my absolute attention

For minutes, sometimes hours, I stare

No output

Some days I’ve got nothing to give

So I take

And the object becomes no longer an object I know by name

It becomes shapeless and unfamiliar for my projections

Sepia toned filters

1988, I’m 6

Ex-lovers revisit with distasteful words

Damn them

Focused stares raise questions

That I’ll probably never answer

I wonder upon many wonders

Knotted desires unravel

And clarity arouses me

Until they ravel back

We get lost, the object and I

Suddenly there’s an understanding about not ever understanding what I’m supposed to have understood all along

Until my understandings pass

And I’m so fixed; I’m detached from the world around me

Then I begin to understand again

Until I don’t

Some days I just don’t have the words

And I’ve nothing of importance to say

But held within my stare lives a whole world of importance

The object knows

Until the objects name is resumed and we merge back into the realms of reality

But it’s not really reality at all, is it?

The object knows