It‘s noisy in this incarnation.
I have to keep reassuring myself that I am.
(I am… aren’t I?)
Exclamation points and question marks punctuate my life.
It’s a canvas painted in broad generalities
but when you let the fractal draw you in,
you are dazzled by detailed specifics.
So we go on:
on on on.
There is more:
my face/my eyes/my voice.
I can see my thoughts unravel
as if removed, from a distance.
I can hear sounds:
a radio plays carried on simmering heatwaves-
an incessant clock ticks, incessantly-
my heartbeat whispers.
I taste my coffee/turn the page
assaulted by the empty space.
Blank pages unreel
until the journal is filled,
the epitaph spoken
final remains, reclaimed.
Apparently, I am.
(Or so it would seem.)
And while I write, so I am.
Creature of the earth,
I can only be in one place at a time.
And for now
I am here.
Here, now, sprawled on a creaky old bed
on a sticky Johnstown afternoon.
Caressed by a loving fan,
I am striking keys on a heavy old typewriter
in the attic bedroom of creaky old 320 Cypress Street.
The prodigal grandson returns to the scene of the crime-
the place of his birth.
I am a guest in my hometown:
the place this poem began.
And now it all makes sense.
I am a poem.
* * *© KPKeelan (8- 2- 77) ALL RIGHTS RESERVED