the visitor

in my state of weariness
I have a visitor
this little devil, or angel, or philosophical nymph
that comes and keeps poking me in the temple and going,
“what the fuck,
why are you the modern incarnation of prohibition?
why are you even trying to mask what is truth
and what is obviously fiction?”

“why not be who you want to be
or who you are
not who you think you should be?”

I’m trekking through this mind that says,
“to your left, observe the man I am.
this man who lusts for the real thing
a man who thinks too clearly some days
and far too cloudy on others.”

“to your right,
a man who does not know the meaning of stop,
or go,
or yield for that matter.”

this magnificent rendering of all that is human
doesn’t know which way to proceed
he yells,
“what is the god damn hesitation!?
why has it taken this ice aged century to
know who you truly are inside?
why are the years ticking by
like snowflakes in Saskatchewan winter?”

to which, I have no response.
this repository of personal information lacks an index
or table of contents
one merely flips to a random page and starts reading
hopefully the paragraphs will be complete.
hopefully dangling participles will be rare,
like the dreams I leave hanging or the books
I leave unopened.

I wish this was an open sea.
then, the navigation wouldn’t matter.
but these waters! my, the river banks look appealingly close.
and yet, too near the shore the sand looms.
I don’t need anything dragging my ship down.
I don’t need the burden of being anchored.
I just need a breeze.. a calm, gentle breeze
to glide my sails to their happy fullness
and to confuse him on the shores who shouts,
“hey! take me
when you’re starting your wonderful excursion
of this spice trading mission
or whatever the fuck it may be.”

it’s the reason this visitor sees no harm in the campout
this tent I pitch has room for more,
only because I don’t like putting the stakes down firmly
I don’t mind leaving the door open for the possibility
that an unknown will want to spend some quality time
hell, I even have an extra carton of eggs ready for breakfast.

all in preparation, it seems
for when my tenant will finally finish the drying cycle
and buzz in his completion.
I look forward to long walks outside in cold air
without the guilt resting on my shoulders of
that shadowy figure of indecision
he wears fear like my fridge wears magnets

to throw him would be to dart from the sun.
but it’s what Gandhi would do, isn’t it?
to march even when it seems impossible?