Holes

If you ask me what my
passion is,
I’d fire off “philosophy”
without a second thought.
It’s true:
I’m a loyal lover of learning,
seeking knowledge in all the known
ledges of libraries and bookstore shelves.
From Plato to Politics,
I breathe within and between the bindings of
forgotten volumes, dusty
trust me—bad for your health.
in bargain bins—fancy garbage tins--
where I score a Sartre for a dollar.

I remember times when the Sage wasn’t a front-stage
side show.

I remember that. But I forget a lot, too.

People say I’m a learned man--
but man, I’m still learning how to just remember
today.
Retelling stories like their novel ideas
again and again and
you’re too kind to tell me
that I’m
retelling stories like they’re novel ideas
again and again
and you’re too kind to tell me-- oh.

Sometimes I forget words right on the tip of my
faces, flickering by
flickerflickerfalter
gone…
now the name is dangling
just around my memory
out of reach.
Out of reach.

And sometimes the little things
slip my thoughts.
Common words come through my lips and I
st-st-st-stutter it
like foreign…
(what is that again?)
And then I remember,
its “lingo”.

But I remember things others choose not to.
Times gone far away, to a grave of dust,
“objectionable content”

A dissident poet that can’t plant his feet firmly in 2015?
I guess.

My imagination is full of fragments
Data stored to capacity…

but there’s a few…(holes)…in the rest
of me.