perchance, it is

Maybe, I said, it all may be, and that’s the beauty of ambiguity and its spaces for mays and bes and broken chords of individual arpeggi differentiation acknowledged as the whole way of things and our own very own thingness, all rolling around and scrambled up in frying pan parts and people pieces for creation and redo revamp retry reset retrieval of all the ways of not knowing we can imagine, aware of uncertainty’s great relief and its greater potential for unceasing exploration leading to ends of first time starts, like T.S. said and here I am pirating again for the sake of my own vague irresolution

and when I see you (again) I say something clear and ambiguous like “so you’re real (again) after all” and after all it’s all part of the unfaded fantasy of the chance hope for breathless beautiful gold maybes shimmering in the prospector’s pan, and it’s suddenly clearly all worth the shake and sift nonetheless and no matter what because none will always be nothing but less unless unless

unless we try, and in trying, being, we make less no matter at all because when I see you I say it and we run—somewhere, undiminished, maybe certainly, I don’t often know what I’m getting at, and maybe that’s all I’m ever really getting at, maybe that’s all there really is to breathe, just juxtaposition and contrast, an aura of blended, name-deserving distinctiveness around us, such motion, such vastness—inside and out, turning inside out and into a mirrored proliferation of secret hiding places for hiding secret secrets made for your finding and mine and that dove is back again, cooing outside my window

while the old church across the street endures repairs from the outside in, enveloped in scaffolding like a character prosthesis,

while a family moves in next door and the train snakes by and I don’t have to see it to know,

while clouds hang puffy over brick and concrete and green trees and murder rates and kindness and that dove and me and my lists, laying it all out in disambiguated-ish sequence, note after note, gold and pyrite all lined up and random,

while the old house where some wealthy landowner types once lived and which we now offer glances for glimpses of what the glance-glimpsed past looked like when seen from here, outside, walking past the past together on our way to the café on the corner, seeing how the past looks together now with new people on the old stoop of that gutted mansion like Baskin said

and that’s where all the trouble and all the splendor and all the success and all the failure lies, reference paired with theft, truth paired with lies, grounds paired with skies, and everything I could ever need to see I can see in a pair of eyes

maybe, certainly, may it be that I’ll certainly let that save me from a little bit of maybe.


“Our human frame, our gutted mansion, our enveloping sack of beef and ash is yet a glory. I hold the cracked mirror up to man.” – Leonard Baskin

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.