i found some papers the other day
at the end of a book, hidden secret away
from all of the prying eyes.

they were ripped out as they were a part of the past
and now they lie in the garbage, waiting for me to retrieve them,
some sad and lonely reminder of the past,
or throw them out for good.
or let someone else find them, these words I wrote what seems like so long

and then I laid there in bed, the hot air surrounding me as it did an eternity
of summers ago
the quiet hum outside like that of the air conditioner,
in a small room,
in another world.

and I cried.

those silent tears we all cry on the inside.

and all I could see in my head was the vision of the papers with their long
scrawls of words flowing across virgin white sheets of paper, lying there in
the garbage, cast aside yet so accessable.

the wishes on words on paper, a silent cry to the gods to have mercy on me
this one time, to make all my

my what

past wrongs? not really
past foolishness? not then
past lack I guess

past lackings made right and to let me have all that I wanted. a cry to the
gods. maybe they answered. maybe not. maybe in more ways than one. yet
these cries of absolute direction still murmer back to me again and again
through the rocky night, the hot night, the air conditioner not here. not
here not ever. not fucking ever.

yet my skin is still wet with the humid heat of this cursed night, and my
brain still afire with these cursed thoughts. and all I do is forget and
forget and erase again and again. but the marks on the paper don't fade.
nor the glasses. dusty maybe, but never gone.

and I'd kill anyone who opened them. some things are meant to be left alone.
aren't they? left alone in the cubourd out of arms reach, back up on the
highest shelf where no one can see them or find them or turn a page some day
and find


the computer hum like the cooling machine, the humid night just the same, the
thunder crash outside like I did. but it goes on. and I. and maybe the
papers will go or stay, in a silent shelf in an envelope for when those I see
I remember thee.

and I read those words in my mind, not those ones, the others, and I do. the
young the old, the still young.

the knowing. and I wish for that age.

and I pray that the papers will be gone by morn.

ajb, 7.11.2000