Book of Poems: The First -- On The Roof.

From the roof of a building, you

can see a lot of things,
but also very little.

 

The distance is vast, and

there! There is the skyline!

Manahattan, the Empire State, the

homes and work of millions
you will never know,

maybe never see

any closer

than this.

 

From the roof of a building, you

can see the sky.

It might not be much,

not a lot of stars,

even though they are there.

 

One can only imagine.

It’s easy to know something exists

but to never see it

feel it

tangibly recognize,

cognitively,

effectively,

horrifically acknowledge

the unimportance of our existence.

 

“I smile because I know I do not matter

that’s more of a comfort to me

than thinking I’m somehow

intrinsically connected to

a great existence.

 

That’s way too stressful.”

 

I call you belligerently,

almost exclusively intoxicated.

 

To complain about “him”,

and them,

this

that

and the other.

 

I call you from the roof, and

you don’t answer.

But you call me back

 

I complain to you about love
and beauty

and the life I live,

so full of happy but so full

of perpetual existential crisis.

 

From the roof of a building, you

can breathe and drink and accept

the fate that is no fate

and be happy of the existence

of a roof to sit on.