Sitting up Straight

Ross Gay said, in my paraphrased logic, don't focus on an idea when approaching the subject of poem or prose, let it come to you, let it hit you on the nose as you walk down the the snow laden street. Of course this was good advice for someone who finds rare motivation in a wood slat covered coffee shop, you know the one that was in the whole-in-the-wall location, ran by that cool guy with the thick rimmed glasses. 

So, when I approach writing a poem, the motivation usually comes after a mediocre pourover and a slight build-up of that gooey substance on the corner of my lips. Or, it could come after I reject the bullshit academia assignment only meant to interest those in Academia. Then, I start with notes, with a quick glance over at an unexpected female stare. This only lasts a moment. 

Not for you

That split second,

I look over at, 

at you, unabashed

our eyes meet

cosmic clouds crashing down

stale, reservoir coffee

on my lips,

madness no, lunacy

Could this ever work?

Not wishing, 

Not dreaming, 

living

Bye.

-----Of course, the structure is all fucked, the timing is off, whose wouldn't be after listening to the dull machine noise of your roommate's window unit AC. The "poem" above is inscribed on an overly thick piece of notebook paper, miniature style. I thought about giving it to the female that inspired me, but she left. That's OK, I don't need to speak to every person that happens to look back at me. 

The other day I had a "look back at me" moment in the dungeon layer of the building I frequent for those academia classes about academia. I won't seek to describe her face, but her stance was..well, typical. One hand gripping her iPhone, the other tensed up waiting to respond. Most of her wait resting on her right leg. She was waiting for something, and outside the bathrooms. I walked towards her, looking directly at her, our eyes met; no, it wasn't one of those magical eye meeting moments. It wasn't a glance, it was a full stare, almost for the whole length of the hallway. I proceeded to the men's restroom, now that you have to define which restroom you are going to. I was going to say hi when I walked out, but she was gone, and I don't remember her face, just the dark brown eyes and olive skin. I ponder that stare, it was atypical, unlike the typical cellphone marriage. We were both unafraid to sustain the 15 second stare, I lost. Her eye's are special, not special in the romantic sort of way, just special because they looked back for 15 seconds. Those 15 second eyes lead to those 15 minute retrospective ojos. Los ojos que nunca, probablemente, voy a ver otra vez, y tengo estar bien con eso, tengo que pasar por todos los momentos, no borrar, no olvidar, solo esperar. Thoughts seem to have more clarity when they pass both through English and Spanish. No puedo preguntar, what if.  

In all of this, I am seeking for understanding of time, for understanding of why I almost cried over the death of a friend's brother that I never met. I bet it was the pain I saw in his face, and also the pain I also in the face of another friend who has to slowly say goodbye to his father. That hurt, that extreme empathy. Not everybody feels the same way even if we were sitting in that hallowed out room, waiting to be filled with empathy, apathy, sadness, openness, and hopefully the misunderstood. 

I will continue my search.