If I do not witness these leaves turning orange, who will?
I stir myself:
I like to think
Of myself as a reincarnated Poet from the Tang Dynasty,
Dehydrated orange drink
Astronauts gulped orbiting this planet
That became a fun Ď60ís breakfast staple,
The bitter tang of a carís squealing tires as it peels out,
Any distinguishing characteristic that provides special individuality.
Isnít it a very personal moment when each of us
Recognizes we are failing,
That weíre incomplete, outdated perhaps,
& need something new to make us valid,
Sobbing on the mudroom floor,
Praying hands through a broken screen door,
Begging the aftermath of someone to come back,
Or watching our planet grow
Smaller below us
That we discover it is
To ever become
One hundred percent reconstituted?
I am not where I am right now, in this autumn.
My mind is not what it used to be either.
There is no more just-add water.
None of us can prove our previous lives.
I mean pervious: I meant disprove:
About this poem:
"Lately I have been worried and depressed over the fact that my poetic voice was becoming stale, my persona and language too familiar, and, quite simply, I was bored with myself. In order to shake myself out of my funk I started reading some translations of the more obscure ancient Chinese poets to trigger or shock myself into some alien sensibility: paradoxically, I aspired to be un-American while remaining nostalgic, and because I rarely include 'nature' in my poems I wanted to throw a colorful leaf into the mix. 'Tang' became one of those odd poetic experiments that wiggled the old me out of the new."