write some skinny poems—James SchuylerLife is rough, asRough as you make it.Is it better to be theBest at something, or is aGentleman’s C enough,At least occasionally?I used to think it was—I used to think whateverFelt like thought was sheerPleasure, but I’m old now:It’s all edges, edges andScraps, like a collage.I thought that continuityWas everything, and now IThink it’s a mirage, like aSound-effect or an echo,A reflection of what flows
I love the past tense, but you can’t live there. I love the stories you believe add up to you, Though they never do. I love the way The rhythms and the tenses and the words Add up to nothing, or to a diversion, or to this: I know this place, and even think it’s true If places can be true), but what does it say? That if I wake I’ll wake up into it, and then go on? Or is it just a state of mind, a place to linger in Or stay, whose seeming is the whole of its reality? I was born to indecision: I follow thoughts Wherever they lead, and dreams until it’s clear They won’t come true.