poems


	nothing

		I have nothing to say for myself. I believe in nothing. That's why I always have nothing on my mind. I just remembered something, however, and if I may, here's something to show for it, a little something from nothing. Mind you, it's nothing to write home about. And it's nothing to speak of, either. It's really about nothing in particular. For once you try everything from A to Z, you find that nothing really works, and that with nothing up your sleeve, nothing is what it seems-- it leaves everything to your imagination and nothing to be desired. Now, if you think this has nothing to do with you, or is much ado about nothing, well, you ain't seen nothin' yet. As any good-for-nothing can tell you, I'd like nothing better than to offer you nothing. But timing is everything. Before you get all worked up over nothing, you should know something first: I used to have nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to fear. I mean, I used to think I was really something, that I had everything going for me, that anything was possible. I used to believe that if one couldn't have everything, at least something was better than nothing, and that as long as there was something for everyone, who could ask for anything more? One day, however, I began hearing sweet nothings whispering in my ear, to the tune of "All or nothing? All or nothing? All or nothing?" At first something in me said, "Oh, it's nothing," and I tried to act as if nothing had happened. But day and night I kept hearing the sweet nothings in my ear until I knew I had something to worry about, since nothing was standing in my way and I was already next-to-nothing. Finally I decided it was all for nothing anyway, that there was nothing left for me to do except to take nothing personally. So I slipped into something a bit more comfortable and, after thinking of everything, I said to myself, "Here goes nothing..." And suddenly, in a blinding flash, nothing happened. Absolutely nothing! And everything--in a word--changed! I had nothing more to lose, nothing more to hide-- for nothing was new under the sun, nothing more and nothing less. And all I could say was, "Thanks. Thanks for nothing." That's why, now, I can believe everything I hear, for everything reminds me of something else. And that's why I can take nothing for granted, for I know that nothing really matters, that nothing's perfect, that nothing lasts forever. After all, nothing is sacred.


	a mamaist vehicle

		I walk out of the house that isn't there and get into the car that I don't have. After settling comfortably behind the wheel that I don't grasp, I turn the ignition key that isn't in my hand and listen with satisfaction as the engine I don't hear begins to rev up, ready for action. Then, once the emergency brake is released, I gently put my foot on the pedal which is on the floor my feet aren't resting on, and, taking a breath I don't inhale, I start advancing slowly along a trajectory I don't feel throughout my entire body. Soon I'm speeding down a road that I'm not traveling on, glancing out the window to the left at scenes of woodland, and to the right at a flurry of billboards--with the path I'm on leaving the scenes behind so quickly that I don't have time to see them. I'm heading towards a town I'll never visit in order to spend time with people whom I'll never meet, who are awaiting the arrival of one who will not arrive, not now, not ever, but who at this point is departing for a destination which, changing again and again and again, is located in the unknown, a destination which, like a moment lived fully and deeply, is but another word for my life.


	this

		I don't want to make a big thing out of this. There's more to life than this, I know. But I will say this-- this, in a sense, is the stuff from which everything else is made; everything--including this, that and the other--comes from this. Though I can't understand this with my mind, I mean this, I'm not just saying this. Of course, I realize not everyone wants to hear this, not everyone likes the sound of this. Dreams, after all, are made of this; this has driven some people mad. Some, not knowing what to make of this, may not want to get into this right now. Others, finding this hard to believe, may not be ready for this. Still others, afraid of what this might mean, would prefer this to not happen at all. But listen carefully to this. This is happening every single moment of our lives, only once we lose sight of this we're left trying to live to see this, to remember this and this above all. Does this sound familiar to you? If you think this is something, wait 'till you see what comes after this-- there's more to this than meets the eye. Yes, there's a word for this. I know of no other way of saying this. But let's not be civilized about this. Go ahead--take this and eat this. Take this and drink this. Let this grow inside yourself. This is the point of this, isn't it? (Otherwise, nothing can really come of this.) Now don't take your eyes off this. Keep looking steadily at this and nothing but this. Are you ready for this? This --watch this carefully-- is this. And yet... and yet... --how can I put this?-- this is not this --no-- not this. Isn't this something! Imagine this! See what a difference this makes? ...Yes, this is that.