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Novelo Rectangle

HAT I kept a lid on the hairy situationfar too long. A kid, I faded from the sun,sat vacant in the shadowsuntil the deed was done that broughtme to the point of timewhere all that sat upon the mind was fluxand fuzzy circles. What state of mind had brought me there?What size of man could I become?The fight seemed odd and out of place,a race against myself.But then, it was what I already knew—the rut of life is all of meand none of you. Not before the sun setsDo I flip my hairAnd doff my cap.A capital affair and one for the books!Who looks?Who cares? And so, a crown, I take with meWisdomSo now bow down and bend before me”“I am king and hear me roar!”I’m sure you have heard the lie before… GLASSES I wear my spectacles with aplomb,And with a sense of guiltless pride.Had I died, it would have been a different scene:To lie in state and watch each eyeStare back at me and cry or lie:“Oh, he was such a pithy fellow!“Droll and witty and good!” And then false tears would start to formFrom years of practice, mastered in time.And one by one, until they were doneWould I watch them. And yet, I live.My spectacles are scratchedAnd it remains unclear where lies the path in front.Behind me, there is time and timeTo spare. Somehow, I remain awareOf time, and see how it has shaped me.Yet, in front, there is no space.Time bendsLike a prism, stuck in a shadow,A melting candleBurnt at both ends. SHIRT A tattered clothhides a multitude of scars,back-dated denial, andhidden sloth. The armsof the universe reach out to me--what do they teach?I cannot see the future,but the past is mine to take.At last, I come to terms with life!I wear the sins of ages—cages that keep us tame but taut,wound springs waiting to pouncewith but an ounce of taunting. I have collared wisdomthough it is stained and frayed.I should have stayed where I was,should have played a little longer,have gotten stronger,gotten rich.But I did not itch. InsteadI sat and waited—so was I fated. The pocket covers the breast--no rest there is for large hearted men:the universe explodesagain. MY BROWN PANTS My brown pantsworn at the shin, torn at the knee,framed with bits of string andprotruding coarse hair, ground in mud and dirt andyears of hurt; and days of triumph!,green streaks and memories of falls--that is not all--of nights with women and of flingstoo far-fetched to be recalled. These pants rubbed skin,chafed creases, pinched spots andsighed at swift releases. These pants, like I,are often wanting--but who's counting? Brown pants splayed at the anklehemmed and hawed over,empty pockets full of holes anddeeply flawed. Still, my pants. My pantsdrawn at the waist,a record of the taste of life I've led;still, they are not dead.They are born and born again--reborn!Yes, they are torn, but still, my pants. My brown pantsworn at the shin, torn at the knee,caught forever in the circleand a part of me. SOCKS Worn thin and smelling stale from sweat,I regret not changing. Still,there is tranquility in the familiar—the toe-worn truth of an expandinguniverse of lint, a stint on Earth indefinite—peace in the worn out heels of logic,sense in the tattered threadstrying to escape,little heads of lint angels dancingon a pin. I win when I pick them off like lice:A game of dice. But does it really matter?What comes from all the pitter-patter of myfootfalls on the walk?Oh, if only socks could talk!What tales they might tell in thegray, dark, shoes of Hell,in the nation-state of rubber solesand laces with wild, frayed heads:all tales untold! Alas! They are but slaves to shoes,having lost the sovereign will to choose directionor go to graves.But these socks—these socks have been saved! SHOES I’ve walked a hundred miles in my shoes, and stillI wonder who has done the traveling.The laces have become Zen knots or riddleswith canvas painted on by puddles.The tongues talk not, but know direction.Slow, my feet are merely rebels—slavesto paths I did not choose.Whichever way I go, I lose. When someone asks “have you saved your soul?”(How droll!)I point to shoes and wink;“I think that I have worn them out entirely.”

EXISTENTIAL POEMS

jscottlewis

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A MILE IN MY CLOTHES

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jscottlewis

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