THE PROBLEM IS
(Mostly written on the train, traveling as invited to the Fetzer Institue – Oct., 2008)
The problem is, you see me as so different. Not you at all, thus incomprehensible.
Never clear, the mind searches corridors introduced during your original tour—designed as the ultimate distraction for tourists trying to see the natives by staying out of the village life.
You were told that you are not a villager and surely, not a native. Not native to anything? Anywhere? Anyone?
You’ve forgotten the taste of blood/the smell of urine unfertilized/the slick feel of skin never yet washed or the care in washing it for the last time. The not-you-ness swells dangerously large filling every orafix. Thus, you can’t pull in or secret. No conscious exhale or pause in response to the caw alert – right above your head.
Someone else must supply your colorful language, your out-of-control fucking. Cause its just not you to go there….and, if you get out of line to partake in the feast that your ancestors prepared, you may loose your place in line, have to start again at the bottom.
I’m determined to know you – you in me and in the dirt that surrounds each vegetable in my garden. You, here with me, sitting at my table of mudpies and bubbles. Of, “my turn first” and “I don’t like you no more.” You want so desperately to play with us, but the problem is…you see me as so different – not you at all – thus, incomprehensible.