To lay in wait for the 'non-regrette-rien'
11/11 2021
To lay in wait for the 'non-regrette-rien'
As if it would rhyme with the previous night,
Or the lunar ideas of that dark flight
That jump at you before a deep sleep.
What could I say: that they are lessons to keep?
On the street in the heat I try to listen
To any hint of an ambitious admission of guilt,
Or at least a little bit of sweat on the forehead.
It's not that I regret, or that it's only void ahead,
Simply, the natural wonder of life, and all there is:
Failure, a drive to put something out there, bliss.
Can darkness be explored through a window,
While Lucinda Williams sings about some gringo?
I twirl the pen between my fingers, and wiggle,
And write about not writing, about the slow trickle.
Part of me whispers that it's already too late,
That our life here is decided ultimately from fate,
And like distraught Desmond Hume mine can only be:
My main purpose is to push a button beside the sea,
As I strive for something distant, something ethereal,
A picture-frame, a memory, something celestial.
Who am I to say that I am crazy?
The future is decided by my vision, however hazy.
To lay in wait for the 'non-regrette-rien',
As if it would rhyme with the previous night,
Or the stagehand that gives me tips on where to stand
So that when the lights come on I'll understand
And not melt as my retinas start to go black
It is getting darker now, and my visions are back,
Death and Life, and the greyness between it all
Of our supposed fate, of our eternal call
I sing my poetry for the crowd without applause
And leave, gently, out the door during the pause.