Tiered Inside
My true self will read all of Proust someday.
Its eye on the ball, it will glass-slipper its way
past every stroke of twelve. It will delve deep
into great ideas, its genetic alleles still
maintaining a Nietzche
in what’s-right-now hip.
Oh, that true self–
that would-be me if I would only be it–
that shit.
But then there’s that other bit–
it’s not a self, so much as a space,
a tier infesting the chest
like the stateless thirteenth floor
of a building too fearful to count–
a sob story–not a tale, but the level where quashed sadness
convenes, recording minutes in blobby diligence, but not
reading Proust,
looking through the glass darkly rather than snookering
into its fine shaped shoe.
This bit does not understand
either Nietzche or the hip, but it does get
that life is a blip–
even the life of the true self, even the life
of the would-be true self, even the life
of whatever self finally just lets be.
This bit grips hard when the selves
loosen, tells them who’s boss.
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Here’s a draft poem for dVerse Poets Pub’s prompt on Entwin(n)ed Poetics, about twins, opposites, divided selves. Do check it out. (Also, sometimes photos do not show completely on older browers- if it looks weirdly truncated, just click on it.)
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