Retracing the steps to an intersection without a stop sign, some people are waiting for the bus.
hidden fated past in the face the mirror casts, history likes to repeat itself.
back on the block, I remember names and connections.
distances away, I remember gaps. the bus arrives in a black cloud of delay and
indifference; the smoke clears.
family makes me resemble the redemption of their last memory.
history is made up of someone's memories and people remember what they want.
the lines of life whine in their strife while the heart creates an oasis
of old things, collected for rainy days and memory haze.
I knew myself before I spoke of the good times. the disconnected chords of
past didn't prevent a present from becoming a past.
whether it's memoir or lineage, the good old days are mysterious
occurrences that evolve into a sense of completion for my missing reason.
what follows me is the perpetual light of my shadow.
I come out like an essence, sometimes a simile of what others remember in others before me;
some sense of familiarity carries on the memories that comfort what's forgotten to
take me into the next moment and so on.
birth alone isn't a part of me, but it's the extension of the tree,
like my great-uncle, Jesse, that Mama says I'm a spitting image of
I have never seen, will always search for; that's life.
I find myself here and wonder how much do I
need to know in order to know why and does it matter. my
destination isn't known, but the
fare is due, what is it to you?