Another one from what’s turning out to be a series. I guess I’ll call it the ‘unshruggable silence series’ :
I’m often asked these days
In equal parts
By myself and others
About the wandering of my thoughts
And about their colour.
Well, I don’t know much
But I know where I’d like to look for them –
I’d like to slip into the little slit
That I imagine a sharp knife would make on my thin wrists
I’d like to ride the hardness of a warm gun
All the way to my spleen, my gut, my very heart and look for them there
I’d like to look for them in the eyes of frosty mountain peaks
And in the depths of dark oceans
I’d like to look for my thoughts in these places
And these places specifically.
And I don’t know their colour
But I know I’d recognise them in an instant
I’d know their lonely silhouette
Huddled up in their favourite crouching posture
The baby, in the womb, they always seemed to need.
Or the vagrant wasting away on an old park bench
Or a commuter stranded on a platform, waiting, endlessly
In seeking them out these would be my usual suspects.
I don’t know my thoughts
Or their whereabouts
I’m clueless and empty
And I receive and stare and take in
Everything and anything that stands in front of me
A computer screen with squiggles and things
A friend I’ve known long enough
A book with its words all loud and open
A street with its cars and people and its peddlers and hawkers
I take in everything
And offer in return
In equal parts and without discrimination –
Blank stares and a vacant expression.