In Between
Movie night, morning after;
lift door closing, opening again;
red lights, green lights;

we try to

                   fill in that

                                       space.

Always successful,
Always yearning for more.

Standing in that gap,
to draw both sides
together
into one complete whole.

Pushing the blame.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars, as if we were villains on necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting on.

-William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Lear.

The Fortune Cookie
You were clad in a
new transparent
plastic wrapper
still whole
pregnany with a line,
a message.
You would announce
your good news,
your fortune for me,
tidings for the New Year.

I tore the wrapper open,
an incision down
the middle,
yanking you out between
my thumb

and forefinger.

And I forced you apart
in two,
so that I could break
you, to force
you open so that I could
pick and claw that
fortune message
out of your hole.

Indeed I did,
and your message to me
read:

“Your life will be happy
and peaceful.”

Indeed, I felt that it already was,
and popped
you two into my mouth,

making you a part

of me.

The Year of Magical Thinking.

The Year of Magical Thinking
Barely five days and decisions in,
I see the roads in front of me
merging and forking,
a live metamorphosis occuring
before my very eyes.
My map outdates itself immediately,
and I have to rely on my own,
to find my way through the year.
But what difference does it make,
with or without a map?
More often than not I have
relied on my judgement
to show me the way,
and more often than not, it has
always been against my better judgement.
I will feel lost, I feel loss.
But this will be the year of
magical thinking.
Projecting and forging ahead,
the endgame is not at the beginning
of this year.
Unfinished, it’s unfinished, it
will remain unfinished.
This is no more a game for me,
my life is from now on
my responsibility.

I understand that the title of my poem is also the title of a novel by Joan Didion, and I acknowledge that it is her novel that has provided me the inspiration to write this piece here. Sometimes, to be able to work out ones thoughts and feelings, one merely needs the gentle nudging in the right direction by the words of another, and then a flood of words and insight will rush forth.

Sleep calls me to escape,
to run away from
the conscious mind.
Other minds are still
active.
            Passivity working
itself through as my
eyelids tumble down,
and pen streaks across the
page.