on trying to find

is difficulty unalloyed
to sit down and fathom the concept of
the lingering inevitability
of a life spent in longing


you, drivin by a certain stale ache
force open
 books
embrace new people
or old people
try to just
sense something.
something.


longing for the smother of a mother
the puff of a lover
the mass of crowds of friends
swarming in
'everybody knows you'r name'
what is it all
the kind of laughter that is a life
and then all at once
and at days none.


when i was young
i never paid attention
to the overruling possibility
of tragedy
television made it seem
like unhappiness
was not an option
fiction tries to approach
concrete existence
but inconveniently misses
the little spots of
nothingness.
misses the end of the day
when you brush your teeth quietly
and go to bed alone.
and
not know why you should wake up
just to try to read more
and hold more people
and
laugh more.
that is no reason.
it is only allure.


when i was younger
if we gathered
we gathered and that is the purpose
i didnt see the tragedy in the fact
that still there was
enormously aching space between us.
for possibility.
and we were all aware of this possibility
we all felt the longing.




maybe:
even though
buttcheeck glued to buttcheek
we still long
for one another