I Think Too Much
Mathematical Dysfunction.....
I try very hard
To be logical.
I make everyone
A math problem.
In my head to be solved.
If I cannot solve you
I chant my "wishful thoughts"..
And try to forget that I ever tried...
It gets tricky, though.
I am not versed in the
Logistics of numerology.
I do not know when to
Subtract when it is time
To let go..
I end up thinking
About numbers like I think
about poems.
There are infinite
Ways I can feel the same word
On different days; I can add as
Many numbers as I want to 22 or 89.
And make everyone an eternity
That makes sense to keep forever...
My brother is 22.
He has not lived yet.
He has not gone to enough bars,
Or slept with enough women
Or forgotten enough "Stacy’s" or" Michelle’s "
Or the way their skin on the inside felt borrowed
Like the Sheets that neither of them belonged to or
Collected enough motel receipts and one night stands to be
Considered a man..
My grandmother is 89.
She is dying.
It makes sense because she is elderly.
And her body is shrinking in the way
That only subtraction allows.
She has lived a long life.
Every day of it, a new miracle the Universe
Granted to the seasons..
In preparing for the departure
Of the loves of my life, I remind myself:
That siblings and grandmothers are not poems.
Not strings of words to make infinity with..
They are math problems who will leave..
She will be subtracted by cancer.
Or by the natural flow of the Universe.
And by age 24 he will realize that he
Is getting bored with the habit of
Years in college spent bedding bones.
But when they leave;
I will not be able to..
To reconcile their names
With the number Zero.
I will never be able to
Forget the poems,
The eternities I have built
Of them with my voice..
I try very hard
To be logical.
I make everyone
A math problem.
In my head to be solved.
If I cannot solve you
I chant my "wishful thoughts"..
And try to forget that I ever tried...
It gets tricky, though.
I am not versed in the
Logistics of numerology.
I do not know when to
Subtract when it is time
To let go..
I end up thinking
About numbers like I think
about poems.
There are infinite
Ways I can feel the same word
On different days; I can add as
Many numbers as I want to 22 or 89.
And make everyone an eternity
That makes sense to keep forever...
My brother is 22.
He has not lived yet.
He has not gone to enough bars,
Or slept with enough women
Or forgotten enough "Stacy’s" or" Michelle’s "
Or the way their skin on the inside felt borrowed
Like the Sheets that neither of them belonged to or
Collected enough motel receipts and one night stands to be
Considered a man..
My grandmother is 89.
She is dying.
It makes sense because she is elderly.
And her body is shrinking in the way
That only subtraction allows.
She has lived a long life.
Every day of it, a new miracle the Universe
Granted to the seasons..
In preparing for the departure
Of the loves of my life, I remind myself:
That siblings and grandmothers are not poems.
Not strings of words to make infinity with..
They are math problems who will leave..
She will be subtracted by cancer.
Or by the natural flow of the Universe.
And by age 24 he will realize that he
Is getting bored with the habit of
Years in college spent bedding bones.
But when they leave;
I will not be able to..
To reconcile their names
With the number Zero.
I will never be able to
Forget the poems,
The eternities I have built
Of them with my voice..
