The I in the soul patch slapped off my face
Spread scattered ego shuffling on the breeze
Over every emaciated place
Diminished by my exile’s treason’s ease.
The man in my mirror, the man in my dreams
Splits snicker-snack in the caesura’s claws,
Neatly striking my name from where I’ve been
And scribbling it back in between the pause.
Same sign, new meaning: a coincidence
Of arbitrary logos advertising
Two different products—and yet all sense
Points at the sameness the change tries disguising.
So on these stilted thoughts wobbling across
My portrait, I know I and he are me,
But marvel that a mask’s symbolic loss
Can warp my memories based on what I see.
July 21st, 2010 at 21:06
sorry about not posting for a while. cubicle-land can be a busy place.
this poem leaves me a little perplexed. is the reflection in the mirror superseding the agent before the mirror? it’s as though the reflection is the creator of the agent instead of vice versa. it reminds me of the saying that life imitates art…except that here life’s existence, its raison d’etre, stems from the imagined concept.