Why not give my
Self
A
Gift?
I’ll give me something,
Something–
Something that–
Something that I need.
Like what.
Something.
Something not
Material.
You can’t hold it.
Not an article or object.
But a state.
No, more than that.
So what, then?
Like I said,
Something.
A consistency, a continuance of
Some sweet singularity.
That I gift me.
For me.
This new me,
Or maybe it’ll
Be
Some readjusted me—
No, hate that word.
But a re-calibrated me.
Circling myself in dreams and wants
This Christmas morning, so I jot further
Into this well, wishes and tossed coins stepped on and
Over but not
Too harshly,
Ubiquitous umbrage over
Visions—one thing for the rest of your story,
Day night left and what’s right,
No one can be sure so just give yourself whatever it is
You have wanted for long, for always,
Music or a house on the beach, some trip
To wherever, now I’m just walking in my
Own lack of sense, sensibility’s with little
Scaffolding, not sure how secure the
Structure is,
But either way I’m giving myself something today,
A portrait, a scene of a structured and scenic me,
Me,
One I’ll just play over and over, like some Hutcherson
Tune in a San Francisco club, back in the sixties, smoke coupled with
Notes of beer, or whisky and…
Another page in my stretch or stumble, peregrination of
This new character. We just
Met, I just
Drew him today,
Gifted the current self a self with a more roaring
Current, tide and tidal waves, tsunamis of
Anti
Normality.
Why be at the equator when I can write from the world’s
Top floor?
But either way, You,
Merry Christmas.
Enjoy this new you, the new travel and chapter, story
And measures, three pages of the car rides, the
Photographs of mountains and sunsets in Central Oregon,
Visits to your old neighborhood, your old house,
The trips and the coffee in before-never-known
Haunts. This new gift haunts me,
Innumerably, and the life here now is garnished with Newness—
But not so much numeric as it is atmospheric, a clear and defined
Redefinition of self for this sitting and the days after and
After.
And not so much qualitative either.
This new This is not in any dictionary.
So how did I find it?
How can I get it for self for ex-mas?
I’m not.
It’s always been here. I’m
A broker.
Internal transaction of realization for this new
New. Reading this to myself and I see what I mean, this
Is a gift. The most electric and textural of
Ever. The harshness persists in delicious chords,
Listening to myself read the note, the gift,
But it has no language, undefined but I know
What it is? So how do I steer with this new sight,
This new life,
This new containment of types and career,
If you could call this a career—
No, it’s beyond that too.
So from the planet’s zenith
I breathe and know what’s next
And don’t know but this is a religion,
A wild dogma of…
Of…
I don’t know.
It’s a gift.
A boon.
A light.
A Road.
I wanted this, this new
Newness, view from a cliff in Carmel,
My first step on a New York sidewalk.
And it’s mine, delivered to me from
Me.
Never happened before and that’s the point.
I point to 101 south, over the Golden
Gate, the to PCH, where
Everything waits. That drive,
That’s antithetical fright.
What I’ll tell my kids, my
Wife,
Parents and sister and other writers that think like this but this is coded.
And not even I can translate what I just unwrapped.
Can you?
It’s New.
The only.
Downshift.
Slow.
This is Now, collection of Nows finally collecting and
Congregating for
My pages. Language…
Why did I wait so long to give Me this?
(12/25/16)
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