FIGHTING THE WAR FROM MY PLACE ON A BAMBOO FLOOR

MARCH 16, 2013

yesterday
at work
i was writing
thoughts
on how
nothing new
is ever
truly original:

the futility of it
grabs you by the neck
two-handed, shakes
you
till the lights blur, then die
on every last hope you had of
standing out
of making a mark
of lasting.

three times
i felt the urge
to reach out
and crumple
that little shit
piece of paper
full of writing
none of it new
an exact expression
of precisely
what i was
attempting to say
so i wrote this:

i’m still caught in the struggle
a fly in the web.
the wise ones gave up long ago:
they found the secret, and so have i
it’s just that the secret is
not what i’d hoped.
the truth is a tree called Time, only older
and though you’re 60 billion cuts
too late
you carve your initials anyway, like
you’re the hungry knife
and it’s the very first time.

today
reflecting on this
i am beginning
to realize
how right and
how wrong
i was.

that little shit
piece of paper
full of writing
none of it new
now serves
silently
as a bookmark
to my left
as i spin these
strings
of letters

despite the doubts.