The world is white-black and my eyes are liars who’ve not
yet betrayed my heart.
Destructive interference in cardiomyopic waves,
Solutions muddled in a Collins glass shaken with two parts
rum, one part lime juice and Hemingway’s pen scratching away on a white-black book
against this dingy bar,
Drinking until his dreams are no longer paralyzing.
A Hemingway and a Hamlet
Torn in directions by dreams
By dreams, per chance, or by duty
To find calling in the world or to be led, listless, towards
a destiny chosen by your father?
It’s a difficult path to pioneer when you head fights your
heart,
but where is the path for the heart that fights itself?
A ring with only one boxer has no winner,
Only a point: it is fruitless to try to strike the left hand
with the left glove.
By duty am I bound
But lies down this fate no freedom, that is
No delight, that is
No guilt.
By passion am I drawn
But lies down this fate no honor, that is
No fidelity, that is
No rancor.
Butter-rum skin on universal white-black canvas
melting indecisively as though relativity were a joke
everyone is in on but me:
An imposter-scribe of my own life events
Fighting the shadow of the thoughts that create me
Betraying the cardial crossroads when my eyes sneak a glance
at one of a million possible destinations.
