the paths we tread

the paths we tread
the poets we read.

last week, a little later
than this exact hour, i
was able to see the
paths of the world
all at once and
all the people
who go to
and fro
on them
over the
years all
at once
as well.

And, well, It's hard to explain,
hard to transcribe it
for you. I've had it in
my mind with me
since last week,
though. the paths
we tread, the poems
we read. slight changes
as time wears on.

And it was at the bar,
the beer garden when
it first hit me - that vision
of the paths of the world
all at once - how we as
humans stick to them,
how I tend to step back
just a little to try to see it
from another angle - and
from just off the beaten
paths as one path with
many directions, i was
able to see the coming
and going of people
through the years
in this building,
this building
now on its
last legs,
no longer
what it was
to me as the
facade breaks
down. And this
building gave me
that final poetic vis-
ion perhaps. nuclear
powered steam boiler.
SteamBoy poster in
my room and that's
pretty funny now
that i think a-
bout it. it's
a bout,
and i
don't
have
any
fight
in me.

A path led me to this building and
a path leads me away from this
building that has become a
home to me these last
three years. A run
down building,
but it was a
home, ya
know?

Now not so much, so I park
across the parking lot to get
some extra walking in - a new
path to the car that follows a few
paths of its own. And I probably
won't roam far. This town is
a cross roads of sorts -
so many paths leading
to and from it and i don't
fear leaving here, but i've
grown accustomed to the
land and people here.

the paths we tread,
carefully,
the poets we read,
gracefully.

the poet
(or, rather,
ME as a poet)
can sense the
paths if i step
back some or
have some big
emotional up-
heaval in my
mind - a
spark -
but i
cannot
seem to
hold onto
it - the image.

even now,
it fades as
i try to trans-
late to the page,
a transformation
incomplete. and
a day or so later
or maybe it was
later that night i
was in line at
the VP (local
convenience
store) and i
saw the paths
again, the people
moving in and out
of a line all throughout
time and we had shiny
wrappers and computers
now, but people have been
visiting the merchants for
a long time and standing
in line with a milk chocolate
i think, i suddenly saw thousands
of them (not literally, of course, but
literary-ly) going in and out of the
store - i could see the path leading
into and out of this place on the
planet - the circuits of people
moving in and out, in and
out and all the while, i
could just stand back
and observe and report
later what i saw.

As I scrape a dinner together,
I try to recapture that scene
again - the whole world
began to make sense,
at least a little more
sense.

the paths we tread,
carefully stepping,
the poets we read,
gracefully denying.

the paths we tread,
combined together.
the poems we read,
collections of letters.

and i try to cling to that
poetic vision i had in the
bottom of this building,
surrounded by people,
unsure still if i fit in as
a normal person. they
accept me for what-
ever reason, though.

the paths we tread
are sometimes bad
and
the paths we tread
are sometimes sad
and
the poets we read
are sometimes sad
and
the poems we read
are sometimes so...
out there as if to be
incomprehensible.

remember when in ireland
our paths crossed again?
letters come together as
words and form lines,
or paths to try to get
the mind from one
place to another.

the paths we read,
the poets we see.

the paths we read
the poems we bleed
out of us one thought
at a time, with no thought
on how it will eventually stop,
become connected with another
path, another poem.