possessions

What do I have

What do I have
a book
and no convictions
perhaps
all I have is
this:
exiting a subway station
going up the steps
squeezed between
too many pedestrians
I hear every shoe
scrape against the cement
and stare at the spit
of punkasses
frozen at -13 Celsius
a night that howls
like a monster
but does not eat me
steps
aimless steps
driven mad
like the man
without a thought
that laughs
at the joke
of
eternity.

Braver men…

That I must
never
be read
will be clear
from the vacuous
vocabulary
I must borrow from
and still
there are memories
or phantoms
of an uncertain past
the magic bricks
I thought I could
move with one
finger
the trees that watched
my infant
nothingness
I must never be read
my life is already
buried by dust
there are braver men
out there…

with fear
the embodiment
of disaster
that I call
“breathing”
is not
of any use…

there will be
peaceful silence
when this and other
poems
are no more…

they can’t surface
but sink
drop,
deeply,
disappear.