Uncertain Equations
I am not a poet,
but I can write you a poem.
I am not a map,
but I can take you home.
The iambic feet of pentasyllabic
meter doesn’t make sense to me
which is why I write poetry.
I don’t comprehend
the logic of longitudes
or the properties of the equator,
hence I am a navigator.
.
Distance? Speed times time
is not an equation that fits
in my mind—too full
of stress(ed) and
unstressed syllables.
Compasses have never
offered me as much
comfort as a pen has,
but even that doesn’t compare
to the cartography of thoughts
that I can’t map.
.
The topographic landscape
my mind inhabits
is contoured in fathoms
and fathoms
of archaic archeological
memory I can’t interpret
for myself,
but for you
I don’t even have to try.
I can calculate time
in the blink of an eye
because there’s no distance
my mind cannot cover
when it’s speeding
towards the presence
of an other.
.
My inability to grasp
my own faculties is an advantage
to anyone besides me.
I cannot interpret rhyme
or even keep time
with the beat of this pulsating
landscape, and these words
seem to only fog a mirror,
but on the other side
for you
they make things clear.
.
My own self-revelation
cannot lead me to my destination
because I do not see
the reference key
and am unable to differentiate
you from me.
My words feel arbitrary,
but on the contrary
I know they form
a cohesive constellation
of constants for you—
they are the stars,
I am the darkness.
You cannot see me
because we haven’t
met yet—just like
dark matter and physicists.
.
I am not a poet,
I am just energy that
doesn’t quit
obeying Newton’s First Law—
never resting.
I am not a map,
I am astral projection
that is completely inept
and filled with uncertainty,
but in my words
you seem to find
clarity,
and for now
that is enough for me.
Rundelania No. 3