Sometimes I wonder if I mean anything. The parakeets at work seem to think so when I feed them, because they always greet me with a new song. But they never read anything I write. And I feel like that's one of the only things I've got. I'm afraid and selfish that they will be ignored, shrugged off, or yawned at. I'm afraid eyes will gloss over and what made my stomach church will, after processed through my choice of words, produce no effect. I don't even think Lester or Anna read my blog anymore. Here's a poem about it:
"A Possible Epitaph"
My life is filled with the tremendous
sounds of friends and enemies, chatting over
tea, discussing Monsieur Victor Hugo,
comparing me to Pierre Gringoire, the
poet and philosopher. I take a bow.
An exitlude. A kissed wave.
My life contains noiseless words,
masked gestures, scratches on the
record of an era when everyone was
someone, and no one was really anybody.
“C'est en faisant n'importe quoi qu'on devient n'importe qui!”
I am the Best of Marcel Marceau.