Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Poem: I can't really call this a poem

When I’m 87 I will move to Key West and be a shell
burning on a lounge chair, under the blue sky, feet
spread in the ocean. I know I’ll still have shit to be
burned away even then: thoughts, any thoughts,
which have always been the way the brain dances
around truth. I’ll be tired of all thoughts by then. I’ve
already felt all my feelings. What will come then will
be a mystery, maybe even a rebirth, something new.
Something will come, because the burning will
happen, the days and nights will flow.

Doing my work of therapy has mostly been further
and further self-awareness. This has taught me
that I became other people in childhood. Ego
doesn’t necessarily happen as a positive. I’d like,
then, to be stripped of all the pollution, this history,
the false ego that is stupidly proud, and in a place
where the world is sweet, healthy, even benignly
dangerous: I could be extinguished by the dark

I’ve long seen that nothing in our adult life is
right: grabbing a beer, having a job, liking music.
Lost, we passively take these things from the
ground or the shelf. (Drive by inner fires, we move.
Drive by inner frozen earth, we are still.) Who are
we really?

Remember there’s Key West, where you may just
have a glass of water, not a beer, watch people milling
about, finally ignore time. You won’t need to get on
a boat and sail out into the sea for the final adventure.
You will be the boat.

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Comments are welcome, but I'd suggest you first read "Feeling-centered therapy" and "Ocean and boat" for a basic introduction to my kind of theory and therapy.