All I Can Do Poem by Jordan Wall

I don't know what it is.
I can't move or sit there.
Sit there and stare into the wild pantomime of my world.
There is no one there but it feels as if there is.
There is no one beside me but the ghosts of those I choose to conjure with my mind,
with my imagination and fortitude.

And the words of my roving thoughts seem plain,
like carnivals and Summer days.
I sit and bow.
Look at my hands and the floor.
There is nothing there,
nothing to call place or moment.

It is
simply
too innocuous
these patterns and hue.

And I give myself to wondering.

'What if my dreams were horses, or rockets, or elevators moving people? '

And,
like all poiseless doubt,
I am cheapened by weakness that I cannot pin,
cannot explain or rouse.
It is as if every looming second is really looming.

I need to think about breathing.

I need to move.

And with my frail sense in tow,
I walk to the other end of the room and pause.
I feel dead.
Forgetful.

'Is this where I am? '

And I bow, again.
This time to my chest.
I see my skin and its age,
its history reminding me of time and place.
The hairs around my nipples and my sopping stomach as round as a bulb.
I cannot remember the way it was touched.
There is only a numbing peace
when I reach for those golden ornaments of reflection.

They only say that I was there and quickly scatter.
And I stand,
in this center of a room,
not able to startle this fondness,
not able to explain joy or trust.
I just stand and stare into the corner of two walls.
I try to stop thinking about breathing.

It has been a long time since I have thought about that.



'I've always wanted to say this, this time.'


In that corner, there are memories.
Memories of tears and bonds.
You were there with me,
next to me,
in the opposite corner.
You took it harder than I did.
I just played with the bumps of paint
and the cracks that sprawled from the door frame.
I tried to think I was somewhere else and you,
well,
you just thought of there.

To me,
it was a respite and a quiet detachment
and to you,
it seemed,
a delirium.

I cried,
not because I was there,
but because the shadows were features on a wall that was like
a marionette courtyard,
a prairie fret with life
and seething like the rolling of film in a movie.

I played with the sense of a discovery
and trembled because I knew there was no room
for this pleasure of illusion.
I could only forget it as I knew I should.

'Why can't there be a road, a sign, a melody or a shout? '


So,
here,
there is a slow lingering panic
and the lights stay off most of the time.

I am still and ordinary,
and,
often times,
there is no you.

I remove it.
I say to myself,

'There is nothing crazy about hearing the world all at the same time! '


I say to myself,

'Someone will be there, it can't be empty! '


Most times,
it is all I can do.