Forgetful

I forgot how, so I tried again--adverbially, apprehensive. I couldn't remember how--I never knew--so I broke down, became again. One more time, of wishing when. These are just words, and I don't know how to write a poem--so I'll give it a go, seeing the moment within, forgetting the wordslips, and ignoring the inability to conquer a logical thought.

The Worst of It-Daniel Yetman

Winter, the deathly touch on flesh,

Is flirting with memories—recalling

Desolation, Canadian December—

Trudging home, through crunching snow,

Remaining human in the night—

Under streetlights—dim and flickering.

Mysteries fade with warm breath—

And misspeech burns like logs in fire... 

Norepinephrine, and brain chemicals

Are released by the touch of an unloved hand,

Beneath storms, and ferry rides to come.

Bodies shiver, beneath the first snowfall,

Snow from nothingness…

Candlelight, soft voices, warmth,

Dangers amidst the stillness— 

Acquaintances are embattled in brevity,

Their voices like snowflakes,

Convoluted, complexities—transient things. 

Goodbye, lunched into nothingness…

The unknowingness of being beheld. 

A storm from nothingness…

From apprehension, confessions, reminiscing— 

Of candlelight, of soft voices, of warmth.

Despondence, Canadian December,

Tumbling past Christmas cards—

Tumbling through turmoil,

Skipping holidays, imposition, 

Of sober stupors—lucid for the worst of it.

In disillusionment, strangers whisper,

Condolences, speaking of the worst of it.

The Good Life --Excerpt

I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what he was thinking, but I image he felt odd—as if his life was a book, and he found out that the final chapter he had been coveting—the promised climax—didn’t exist, and that the conflict wouldn’t be resolved. He must have felt like he was ending the story in the middle—maybe he even had doubt if he should go through with it, because the conflict would eventually resolve itself. But what if death was the resolution? What if he wasn’t the writer—as he initially expected—but rather he was a character, being guided by Tolstoy—in a modern retelling of Anna Karenin. Could he have been the reincarnation of Anna? No, if he were Anna he wouldn’t have hesitated for so long—he would have already taken the leap—because she was certain—she wouldn’t have been as ambivalent as him. He was weaker—of course he was weaker, he was mortal.