Friday, April 1, 2016

Connective Tissue

Enlighten me. 
Tell me a crow with gout is an impossibility.
Tell me the ins and outs of dislike. Explain love. 
Use conventional language. English. No accents. 
Nothing borrowed. 
Or tell me in Esperanto.
Show me the charred remains of a wig factory.
Make me relevant, so I can draw
inspiration from an acquaintance detailing 
a story of his journey to a grocery. 
Detail is important, such as when 
I tell you how I was caught up in an insurrection 
and was captured by which side I didn’t know, 
not even if there were sides. 
I confessed immediately. I didn’t want to be beaten. 
Or isolated.
My confession included everything it was assumed 
I knew and didn’t.
It was thorough, convincing. So much so I was 
released, victorious, safe. One must know 
right from right. I’m easily tongue-tied. 
I’ll tell you  a secret: I once thought
I was the terrible at everything, incompetent, 
then learned I wasn’t. There are things I could do.
My self-image was muddled. But I recovered. 
Now I can see all—not all but what I can see. 
And that’s too much.