time travelling poet clown

how ridiculous and
clownlike i must
seem from the
outside. and
maybe the
inside too
and the
way...
the way
you weigh
the options...
the way you think
and don't sink to new
heights or other such
nonsense.

if a poet can feel the
world more intensely,
the here and now,
surely looking to
the past is the
same in a way.

and away i didn't go.

it was a quick and
raw look that at-
tempted to sum
it up (in a number
divisible by two) and
by the time i got through
i felt the same conclusions
i'd felt for a while now. it
has no power over me. i
can talk and not obsess.

thoughts are connected,
though, and concerned
readers should not note
anything negative as it's
natural to ponder the pre-
sent after the past and eve-
n the future. and in the fut-
ure you're there and three
trees grow in the garden and
the present becomes the
primary place in the time-
line to occupy. all the while
my introspection haunts me
as a spectre in the half-light
of the predawn morning would.

i'm at a good point, but i have
to focus. i need to rally all my
reserves and give it one last
push to try to succeed, i
must break free from
this molasses of in-
action that keeps
me still for long
periods of time
just lost in th-
oughts and
it ought to
be considered
more carefully as
moving about from
past to now to possible
thens has made many men
(and women) gone mad.

who understands the poet's
mind.
not i.
i'm getting more comfortable
with it,
though,
more in
control of
the deep
wells of
emotion
able to be
opened up
and given
out seemingly
without end.

the poet as one on a journey
through time instead of space,
staying in the same place, but
living out scenes from the then
back then or the then not yet
happened.

de poet as a person who can
pick and poke and prod at emot
-ions. not totally protected from
dangers of doing such on a fre-
quent basis...

the poet as the words only. the
ability to lay them out one after
the other. beyond that, though,
smothering in seeming real-
world uselessness.