I must confess a certain ambivalence
concerning my intentions, when clearly,
I do not vision the connection between
my “place of agency” and my inner spaces.
I must now critically confess
to my multicolored faces,
historical, as I recall,
and subject my reflections
to generally vague recollections
of my supposedly “deeds” of execution.
This leaves me with a seeming conception
of so many generally pithy impressions ––
such an endless expanse of blank spaces ––
All these years with many fears
I dedicated to the construction
of a life of solid constitution, but alas ––
what happened to my resolutions ––
the moments piled up
and I have ended up with no monument.
All I behold is a vision of skeleton bones,
feeling the wind whistling through, blowing
and rolling tumbleweeds across desert sands,
and a need for final absolution.
- March 25,2008