Paradox of Binding
Weather dreary and grey
while thoughts thud through my head
heavy and useless bracket my existence.
Days like this—
waiting rooms where the magazines are three months old
with crinkled corners, creased and ripped
across his hot body and the sexiest sex moves
section torn out by ravenous fingers,
until you, interrupted by the calling of your name,
look and stand up to go home.
Life performs as a pattern, so predictable, made monotonous,
the mold only broken when presented with new experience—
breathing, climax, inevitable resolution.
Dramatic passion as pattern
played again, played over again.
Repetition binds
but does anything repeat, repeat exactly as before
as I dreamed it, as I thought it, as I said it
that day at that moment in that place?
Nothing new isn’t novel,
a novel isn’t novel
but it’s different every time
or I wouldn’t be told
that isn’t yours, that doesn’t belong to you.
Maybe it does if you believe
in rebirth and then it’s all mine
and I steal it from myself.
and I steal it from myself.
©AC 2014
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