the Good Emptiness

How do you pick up the pieces of an old life?
You don't.
We say goodbye then 5 minutes later you forgot your camera
and so do we poke
the ol' hypothalamus.
I watch any movie or read something old,
and like that I am living the characters' stories.
Knocked Up, I can't want to get a girl pregnant.
Beowulf, We are modern-day kings and princes.
The Beach, with my backpack it's "Thailand a-ho!"
Put on the scent of an old friend or family,
Float swiftly away, how a smell kills the senses!
through thoughts and wishes, regrets and comparisons-
It really feels good, that pain feels good.
Pleasure, and pain.
So are we then ever required to finish?
I'm sorry, but never. there is not a Done,
even when children are grown up and gone,
the credits stop rolling,
lights off, the doors closing...
an empty theater speaks loudest of all.
it calls out to stories where faces once told them
to asses and sweat and laughter and eyebrows,
the arms of the actors locked in a delivery
two lovers or murderers, politics, thievery,
full houses pounding in rocket applause
in whistles and hooting from satisfied jaws
stood an audience once in complete entertainment
locked in and happy to give their regards
to the handful of strangers who just, in this place,
made them believe something so unexpected,
helped them imagine a world that is foreign,
gave to them strangers and lifted their spirits
the point is, the theater
that's where the meat is.
A place of good empty,
a blank plane of space
as the present we see it,
no clues from the past,
sitting there, like an empty nest
like the moment you're waving your final goodbye,
that emptiness there, as you go inside,
or driving away and now feel it alone,
this state is a blank stage.
This is my home.