The Sacred Space

of Every Blank Page

 

“The dignity of a man lies in

his ability to face reality in all

its meaninglessness.”

        ~Martin Esslin

 

The days disperse

like civilians avoiding a draft;

deserters hitting the road

in search of a dream.

Were the days of the week

ever more than

seven convenient lies?

Mondays and Tuesdays

were always gossiping,

making up stories,

telling their whoppers

to Wednesdays.

Fridays always got Saturdays

 hopes up only to have

them dashed upon

the proverbial shores

of a Sunday.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

We filled our days in

with what we bought,

what we said,

what we did;

only to have it all

wash up like debris

on a white sand.

Why not let Sunday be

for clearing the slate?

Just think,

breakfast, lunch, and dinner

could now be served

on spinning plates.

All of us

eating only

when & what

we feel like eating

because now is

the only time there is,

was or ever will be.

 

Every noon will be high

and midnights too.

All of us idle

as sundials at night,

the moon barely

casting shadows

across our faces

absent of names.

 

Don’t panic,

we can still be

tamed by angels

disguised as misfortunes

threatening us

not to stand out,

to go unnoticed

like themselves,

performing their

alchemies

in the dark,

so their miracles

don't go

to our heads.

 

The trees

long annoyed

by our compulsive

categorizing

join hands

beneath the ground,

naked limbs comingling

in anonymity,

pulsating with an implausible

blood, weary of

forming a solo fate

with the audacity

of a single noun.

 

Now

 no one will be

prohibited from loving

because to love anyone

or anything

is to

love another

as much as

we can love ourselves.

 

To those who

shall remain nameless

I offer this:

No matter how many

poems I write

I will never lose sight

of the sacred space

inherent in every

blank page.

 

 

04/09/22