A Poem, or Almost One

Voices call me from the void, and I,

practiced at ignoring them, hear

only snatches.  Oh, not that it matters,

for I know that they lie anyway.  The

things that matter to me now are shells.

I am beyond feeling anything, beyond

making the necessary connections required

for emotion, beyond worrying about verb

tenses, unintentional sharps and flats,

missed cues, bad lines, incorrect exposures,

forced rhymes.  I am beyond all that;

it is a sort of history, though not

history exactly.  It (the history) is

buried like a time capsule.  And as I

run past the fourteenth line (did Shakespeare

feel a pang at this point?  Was it the

call of nature that he was heeding?)

I realize that it is gone, and no longer

does it exist in any accessible form.

No, check that, I am not even interested

in shells any more.  I am only interested

in the moment, and only at the microscopic tip

of the pen, the moment rushing on, on,

to what?  the end, I assume.  To be truthful,

I am interested in only this, this and

nothing more, and my interest fades faster

than the ink can dry.  For me, the sputtering

pen represents death, and I live as long as

the moment refuses to swallow itself.

from Oblivion

written Spring 1982