Crying like the light within me

I’ve got cheap suitcase syndrome
I can’t sleep but on the roadside
under troves of leaves
enwrapped in wings of night

worms beneath my head
an apple in my eye
dust around my pants cuffs
Walt Whitman under my boot soles

did I mention suitcases?
I bank my will in them
tie strings around my navel
to remember, or forget,

whichever suits my case
like a blind wizard-boy
don’t look now here comes
another arrow

St. Augustine never graced my dreams

The writer, says the poet,
must only write
what must not be written.

Such are the quests
we pursue, Sancho-Panza-less,
weak despite our dreams

secret cowards pretending
to be secret heroes.
Who remembers, now,

all those wasted hours
dreaming springtimes
that never came, never left?

Who would want to repeat
such nonsense, who would
listen anyway?

Thousands of lives ago
they, too, believed to the core
of their death-bound souls,

incarnate but powerless,
amused but mirthless
amid those others

who seemed unshackled
but bore also
the scars of sentience.

Whole stories narrated
themselves, so complete
and unpierceable

that if they were not true
then nothing was.
And now, we’ve worn away

the so-convincing patina,
exposed the tin beneath
the blinding shine.

Into the teeth of it, then!
No use making a penance
of it. Allez-op!

Who writes poems, anyway,
but poets? Who reads them
but you?