when I was this much tall. inches. now, measure
goes by another name. yet still, I am this much tall.
this is not like me
write down your sins.
no, those, those you don’t want to say.
maybe not even aloud to yourself.
some say the real meaning of sin is simply not ripe.
not ripe yet.
here, right here, have it sit right next to you. cousin, me.
here’s why. she said, dogs have a clear conscience. do we?
write. write your list or paragraphs, not that you
ever need show anyone. it’s process that makes change.
excuse me while I turn my back. some lessons are big,
but most are small. like this here.
here’s how you know when you’re seeing right.
how we got there I don’t know. but it is,
there are threads that say, who I am.
I am a child, a son, an aging man.
I am an observer, a writer, a forgetter.
I am willing arms. I am broken.
I am shy on Mondays and Tuesdays.
I am alone.
I am forgiven, when the truth is said.
I am your friend. possible.
you never see how many threads I really am
As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not
certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.
Language too, I’m wondering?
2 thoughts on “a journal of everything”
Definitely language too. Writing may bring it closer, but it has limits as well. Because the writer is always less than perfect.
Well that’s a thing in and of itself, isn’t it? Wonder what more could go on from here.
And thanks dear Elizabeth. Distance, yes. But your voice is ever welcome to me!