Everyone is in their bubble,
Because the protection of life is more important than life.
If we were constantly exposed to love,
There would be no love:
Romeo and Juliette
Would be trying to find each other yet.
One mistake by this child
Is the end, there is so much wild.
We are forced into themes
That make truisms of our dreams.
I guess I don’t know
When I can come and when I can go.
The legends and the news stories are repeated
Until even surreal poems are depleted.
I cannot make my mark.
The delighted light keeps moving into the dark.
Too many are asleep, or on the island where
Necessity has pinned them there.
The invisible decenteredness of each piece
Requires itself—this doesn’t cease!
Do you see how each line
Of my poem defines what I can’t define?
And my noble voice, a mosquito’s whine.
I was going to say something to make you happy,
My words the gush of a sweet fountain;
There’s only embarrassment before life’s enormous mountain.
We have one choice: to be tragic, or boring;
To be safe and dull—or get into trouble.
The tragic is real, it’s easy to die;
That’s why I’m in my bubble.
I barely see you, I barely hear you,
But when I do, I see, and hear
Sadness, vulnerability, fear.
Tell that joke: I heard it before.
There’s too much coming and going.
It’s cold. It’s noisy. I built this door.
You never opened mine.
(We pay everything for these tours.)
You didn’t see mine. You were behind yours.