Imago Guilty Soul Innocent

I enter an elevator on the 66th floor only to find 

a complete criminal court 

squeezed into the space and awaiting my arrival.

The proceedings are clear – I have to represent myself, 

no one else will stand up with me.

In the time it takes the elevator to descend to the lobby

I must make my case for why I feel about my life the way I do.

Feelings need to be justified, 

thoughts need to be analyzed, 

actions reviewed in gory detail.

I stammer through an opening statement, 

mumbling to myself, overwhelmed and dismayed.

I try to explain – my life has been a one-legged ballet in a war zone,

a muddy operating room at a country carnival, 

a bad psychedelic trip atop fornicating hippos,

a sacred initiation in a pirate ship’s rape room, 

a delirious pixie flight into a supernova,

a spinning waiting room without furniture, 

a fiery tornado at the eye of a hurricane,

but that’s not the half of it, my life has been so much more, 

the chaotic motion of it took me by surprise, 

so much energy, I don’t know where to start.

I only have dozens of faded 3-by-3 black and white photos

tossed haphazardly in a moldy cigar box to present as evidence.

There is no way to convey my story, 

not so the sweep and impact of all those years is felt by others, 

not with such blurry snapshot trivia, not in the time allowed.

I fumble through the faded photos; they drop in bunches at my feet.

Part of me braces with anxiety as I call myself to the stand.

I cross examine myself and trick the truth out of me.

The irony of it is raw – this world honors no oaths 

yet I cannot find it in me to perjure myself.

Part of me wants to go to the roof alone and gaze at the sky.

I feel a sinking feeling, going down, the quickening reminds me

of a repeating theme in my dreams, a haunting motion sickness

of dropping into a dark void where things appear, 

they interact with me in confusing but heartrending ways.

I know when I get to the lobby nothing will change.

I will still be guilty of not being understood, 

not by others and not by myself.

I will still have to face the verdict of blind and deaf and dumb justice.

The elevator stops, the doors open, 

my debit card is swiped for the use of the court,

I’m forcefully ushered out of the building and given a warning 

– follow the rules, you’re under house arrest.

But I have nowhere to go, no place that’s home.

I stand on the sidewalk and start singing a song, 

my upturned hat in hand.

People pass every which way, they can’t be bothered.

As I sing I try to translate the words to my song.

It’s no use – I don’t understand them even if I feel them, 

it’s just something in me I have to sing.

Some clown across the street snaps a photo of me 

then hands me a print on his way by.

I stuff it in my hat. He’s laughing with a sad painted face. 

Immediately the image starts to fade.

I don’t know why I feel I need to keep it. 

It’s a pale imago without a soul.

It doesn’t prove anything. It’s not evidence of anything.

It’s a snapshot of me singing, an idealized specter hinting at a meaning.

I might as well be dancing in the dark on an alpine ridgeline.

I might as well be making love to one who shouts at me they love another.

I look to the sky. It’s still striking blue for now. But night is coming. 

Soon stark neon will burn the darkness into starless ashes. 

The elevator doors will open once more.

Then it will begin again.