Poem 384

I is another, mon semblable, mon frère … the frustration of sensing something within which remains out of focus, unable or unwilling to come to the surface, waiting for the muse, the god, the inspirit to split me asunder so I can live out loud … in order to self-actualise first locate the self … I guess this is about struggling to find the authentic core out of which to write …

Shadow Man

I try to say my name
  but an ox is on my tongue
I try to use my voice
but the accent is unrecognisable

a man walks by my side
   our paths converge
but I am not him

I talk to puddles thin sheets of mud
reflecting an empty audience

I want my balance
I wish to stand
and throw these sticks these wrong
     words
into the water

I want to draw breath from the world
and exhale it changed
to send none of these boats
unmanned
                       when I can be found
in the paper cup of each

if I have buried myself
where do I bring the spade to?

if this self taught alphabet
    is error
how do I now take every letter
off the wall?

if this shadow
who walks beside me
    is me
where is his voice
to tell it?