Upon Completing A Fine Balance

I come to place my chair,

walking carefully, centering

with the sun amidst spears

of grass, dirt, and light buzzers;

balancing heat and thirst

with cool shade and liquid,

balancing this with thoughts,

words, pages, freakishly before me . . . 

"Birth and death-- what could be

more monstrous than that?"

Us, knit between;

going over the balance

I sweat, gorge liquid, overheat--

a victim of my elements,

or them my tools,

going over the options:

that it is all meaningless,

a quilt that has lost its pattern,

that it is maddening, and we know

we can not pick up each strand,

that we will fulfill its prophecy

avoiding or embracing this all along,

that we take all that we can

and sometimes actually give, too,

that we follow its commands,

ashamed, wishing we hadn't,

that it embarrasses us with a mirror

showing us poor and disgusting,

that we roll through it, brandishing

our hideous features, laughing,

that it is controlled by us, so that we believe

we made the right choices,

that we exist independent from it, only

leaving ourselves alone with memories,

that we fix it, and clash

to sort it all out and are killed for it,

that it frightens us and we are terrified,

wanting to snip bits out of it,

that we accept it and move on,

with a half-smile, scarred from it,

that we balance it amongst things

falling apart, centers not holding,

wavering, staggering, thinking,

concluding . . .  almost arriving,

"the circle completes itself"--

I stretch my legs further, extending

to wipe my feet on a patch of green

moss, fabric-soft, inviting and comforting,

my skin burning above it; leaning back

to shut my eyes, forgetting stinging

bugs by remaining stilled and calmed;

should I rest here? or retreat,

cooling myself off.

red skin, burnt--

red skin, burnt,

dead, and dying still--

calloused, hard,

rough, and stronger yet--

tomorrow,

with new layers,

I'll walk and be burnt,

but slowly grow accustomed

that it may feel less bad,

less bad.

I leave this chair on my porch--

I leave this chair on my porch

as proof of life, that this spot is lived on;

that here I watch, hear and read,

smile to the streets or think

while storms rolling in hard

never quite reach where I sit,

question grass length and cardinal color,

speculate on my neighbors,

their noisy, happy children,

laugh and am made mad

above books and pages,

and watch for the gesture

of a passerby in motion

as I lift my head and nod;

my legs crossed or not, I am content,

in comfort or not, I am content

to let the dirt and pollen stain my feet,

to let tiny bugs crawl and faucets to drip,

and as petals amass I'll not sweep them off,

as this spot is lived on and it is there

I must leave my chair, perched,

leaning comfortably, bent and prepared.

bedroom (re-thought)

who is in this bed?

and who are they with?

(if with anyone at all)

and what is the dream?

and is it good or bad?

and why do they dream?

is this screen a television?

or is it the mind's eye?

and what's on this screen?

and why does it flicker?

who is "he"?

and is "he" alone?

or is it "her" alone?

or are they both alone?

why does he shut the door?

and does he close it?

or does he slam it?

(if there's a difference)

and does he shut himself out?

or does he shut himself in?

and why is it written?

and why is it thought?

and why does it ask?

and why does it beg?

and why is it sad?

and why is it short?

meditation #6 (driving)

as speeding by you pass,

i hope you consider why it is

you jam so hard the gas,

and question in your head the need

for such a silly, unnecessary,

inordinate level of speed.

meditation #5 (bedroom)

nestled in bed,

adrift in dream--

a flickering screen--

he shuts the door

to her room.

meditation #4 (librarian)

out of touch,

style--

old, awkward,

embarrassing--

nervous, quite

depressing--

hand-wringing

and dead--

watching her drown,

and drowning myself.

meditation #3 (fog)

deep air folding,

resting on mats,

electric green--

mirrored, black puddles,

scratched gravel bumps--

neon, flashing scene.