III

I resolved early on never to die,
And have thus far had little difficulty
Keeping this and other promises
To myself, under wraps. But not to let
The chattle out of the bag-check just yet,
I would like to touch on matters closer
To home, in a belated effort at
Keeping the reader intoxicated
And underfoot, always in mind, always
Smiling out at me from an old photo,
Dog-eared, depicting none other than
Yours truly in literate garb, standing
Simultaneously at either end
Of the creative process/spectrum.
There is so much pressure to have ninjas
And plaintive babbling in your poems
That one is almost tempted to jump ship,
But stops at the last moment, stunned by the
Appearance of a hooded figure
At the end the flying jib. The old
Explanations will no longer suffice,
He says. We need something different, a farce
Or legerdemain by means of which
We might once again feel the pinch and burn of
Glory. Give me a name and I will set
You a place at the table beside me
Where we can talk of things unattempted
Yet in pantomime. It is fair enough
To want one's own way of seeing the world,
As though for the first time, to be the only
Way, but it is also selfish and dumb.

Then came a long interlude, for drinking
And considering the project at length.
It was, after all, a thing comprised of
Experience, and with so much of that
Going by the wayside, it got to seem
As though one's efforts were misdirected
As well as misunderstood, an unfor-
Giveable combination. What was the
Big idea? And was this really the way
To get some sense of it down on the page,
Or would one be better off not having
Taken up the slack? But it turned out to
Be as efficient as any of the
Several lesser methods with which you were
Familiar, and altogether less in-
Decent. And so, without further delay,
The project was resumed, but this time, it
Had even less to do with himself and
The people that he knew best, and thus
A third person narration was thought
More appropriate, and adopted almost
Immediately. I, of course, had
The good sense not to make the same mistake
In my own writing, although the temptation
Was certainly present (and inviting).

But more importantly, there were new concerns
Which made the whole seem obsolete. It was
The approach which was at fault, as you once
Had feared, and suddenly, nowhere near the end,
The ball of twine was yanked away, and sped
Toward the center of the labyrinth. Could
You still make a stand against impending
Destruction? As a chorus of boy-voices
Chanted "tune in tomorrow," you retired
To the country, puzzling over how things
Could be revitalized and yet stilted.
Characters, for example, would make it
An altered beast, and thus were entirely
Out of the question. But there should be
Something ventured, you thought, and then the thought
Of death as the completion of a thought
Arose, and seemed to retain something of
Its old appeal. It seemed ideal because
It made everything shrink (with grandeur) into
The manageable yawning blue flame of
Hindsight. But what was a preparation
Of that sort if not a focus on the
Act of living, and thus to celebrate
Became the preoccupation. Here was
A fit plateau from which to survey, and
Finally, to speak, unburdened, to say
The things that had before been for others,
And in the voices of others, said, and now
Were yours and yours alone. You, however,
Found yourself speaking gibberish, although
The very sounds housed and transported you
Into the bodies, the waiting bodies
That are to be of one mind with themselves.