April 9, 2014

. . . the way you jam you feet into your shoes without unlacing them, in order to have a victory in something. . . .

Red-shafted flicker in the yard yesterday.

. . . the way you hear you inner thoughts murmuring, at no one in particular, at every possible listener, have mercy.. . .  have mercy.

You wonder about your friends. . . what there is about you that does not inspire loyalty or. . .  You can’t think of what it is you want to say. No one has your back or ever has. You think you’ve had plenty of backs, but it doesn’t appear to matter. It seems part of a different, inferior order of creation that somehow doesn’t count. You’ve been part of a group that drove to Charlotte to see one friend on stage for five minutes, and the same group won’t bother to drive downtown to see you in a lead. It happens so consistently that they can’t be at fault. You must be at fault in some way.  The room empties and they’ve all gone somewhere for drinks and not mentioned it to you. The laughter passes by your open door. They make a list of people who do what you are better at than all, and the list does not mention you. You probe so much, turn things over in your heart so much you realize that if you don’t know what’s wrong, you can’t know what’s wrong. Praise for A and B for what you did fifteen times without being noticed . . .the pouring of the heart out to one you catch looking somewhere else. . .  “Who will help me?” you ask, and not one name drifts out of the lamplight. . .the way you hear you inner thoughts murmuring, at no one in particular, at every possible listener, have mercy.. . .  have mercy.