Stories I No Longer Tell Myself

 

Our I’s have a lot to answer for.

They’re addicted to stories.

Whenever they themselves

are involved even if

the stories affect others

as they regularly do,

they hold themselves

entirely responsible

for their own outcomes

no matter how adverse.

Well, at least I do.

 

The implications of course

are up for debate.

For instance, I believe

cultivating consciousness is

to take responsibility for one’s

own vibration.

Others may well be

more reactionary.

 

I’ll fondle my manhood

hoping to arouse fortitude

as if boldness were a genie

inside a spouted lamp.

Now I’ve stopped

making wishes at all.

“Do you have children?” I’m asked.

“No. I have imagination.”

 

I recently saw a film

about a man who

was told he was dying

and began behaving

uncharacteristically selfishly.

He wrote in his diary:

I do what I want now,

now that I know.

Me? I’d rather do nothing

and be at peace with it.

 

The poet Donne kept a skeleton

hanging in a hall closet

to remind himself to make

no bones about death.

He insisted on astonishment

as a constant companion

no matter how mundane

his present circumstances.

I’m taking his cue.

 

Growing old is not

about piling on more

experiences; not

a ticking off a bucket list

by executing yet another

daring leap, but rather

an elimination of minutiae

that one no longer

wants or needs

so that life grows lighter,

less crowded by

unessential things.

 

I no longer carry bags

with me everywhere I go.

I am quietly preparing

to be anywhere 

and nowhere at all.

I never enter a room

dragging bags full of

personal memorabilia.

Let me just be here now

without histrionics.

Would that I might feel

this quiet moment,

astonished by a lack

of a need for narrative.

 

 

9/12/22