The Colossi Go To Sleep

Thank you for bearing with all the babbling about myself, women, poetry and the world. Mostly myself. I fight against the appetite to write about myself, an unneeded and unhelpful desire, a pitfall trick of the ego. I intend to be a man who talks much less and much better, a rebel and a sportsman, a scholar of serenity and perhaps religion, a different kind of nuisance. Everyone is a poet these days, and I don't blame myself or any of the others who make a claim to the title, but I want to be able to say "No. I do not write poetry. I am not a poet." The Colossi go to sleep in their bed of sands, the fate of all colossi befall them and harmony is well-kept. For when I do fail at accomplishing all that I wrote above, if I return to poetry, I will not disturb the sands of this blog, I will create a new one. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Please accept this last scribbling as a send-off in keeping with the spirit of the blog.

The Truth Being

Every single woman still in my heart

from Eve to Rebecca to Salome to Beatrice
each with their uniquely distorted view of me

and every vision of myself I have lost sight of
in voyages across glasses half empty

and even this thunderstorm we call a government
although it couldn't look me in the eye
and I couldn't understand how the hell you can trim a moustache and a people just like that

has passed through my little tent now.

My attempts at a well-disguised revolution of everything
hidden somewhere amidst these trees

have changed nothing:

as every single woman once in my life
and every vision of myself I have wrecked
and this moustache a government
passed by me in this park
I remain well unable
to sing to any of them.