Metaphorically and literarily speaking, you have all seen me "naked", so I don't feel too bad about this next little bit of poetic nudity. It may be trite, but it's also veryvery true, and unfortunately some true things, and some things that are beautiful, or that hurt, are trite. No apologies, not for writing this, or for sharing it, or for feeling this way.

(And speaking of poetic nudity, where are you, Seamus? I miss you and those green hills and fields and hedgerows... I know we'll always have TdC, but I could stand a little bit of Wains Cotting or Lower Tadfield or Knob End* too, y'know... I'm here, and I'm with you, too. xo-s)

I wrote this one in 1999
's called:

Night Blind

Riding high,
questioning my Dianic depth,
my heart is full and heavy.
The steering wheel seems to be
the only substantial thing in the world.
Crickets scream, guitars scream,
and the road unfurls fast in this small spray of light.
Curves rise, treetops break,
and the full summer moon
hammers fall into me like a nail.
I am 31 now, afraid of winter,
and somehow sure that reality is crashing
around me like burning dominoes.

Beyond headlights beam,
the world is as dark a place as there is.
Straight bone arrow to the heart dark.
Humans have a weakness - compassion,
and yet it is our only real strength.
What do we cleave to -
worship of body or mind?
"Both" seems impossible for the urban, uptown ape.
Speeding through this void, I see that light
is two-faced.
We burn candles and say our prayers,
but those tiny motes
seem to illuminate nothing.
We light fires as a beacon - or warning -
and set explosive raging blaze to innocence.

I love the moon**
I think of it as the face of god.
The same face that follows me
no matter where I point my car,
laughs, reminds me that time is
pouring out of the world,
and disappears when I need it most...

The sun is constant,
and as dangerous as good,
but I soak in its light and warmth,
trying to store it, like a battery, for the long night.
It will make me ugly,
and I wonder if anything is more than skin deep.
When the shine is gone, what will be left?
There are memories -
of fires tearing down childhood;
candles flickering inside glaciers of loneliness;
the moon, laughing at what the sun
has done to my face;
the blue nightlight that seemed at times
the only comfort of my youth
turned off with the smallest click;
and at the end of the road
my yellow porch light
fading into the wash of another breaking day.

. . . . . . . . .

love,
me.

*hur hur hur...
**WE LIKE THE MOON!!!! heheh... hey. do you think this means that i am a spongmonkey?!?!