Another Day in Purgatory

My words are truth
without clocks,
They are the things of wrestling
of memories
of hours and days in purgatory,
my own dancing with Dante’s wretched souls
and cummings’ sly sexy humor,
a masquerade ball where there are no masks
but everyone is sure somehow, there are;
my own journey, out of order,
perfectly arranged,
truth so strange and powerful,
so out of order,
so mirror like
that no one believes
is mine, except of course
those who hate and love me most.

About this poem

“I read your blog every day.” she said. “You seem OK.”

Lots of people read my blog every day. And I am amazed when they reach out to me to make sure I am OK after reading a poem. Amazed that from my words, my public therapy sessions, rants and swoons, we all connect somehow.  Amazed that they honestly care. It’s a wonderment to me. It’s an expected gift.

So consider this a warning label: what you read is true, but sometimes it is true in the moment, and sometimes it was truth mined out of the memory of a life that has sixty years of rubble to mine, and sometimes it is merely my own wrestling with angels or demons. It’s a pretty poor window into my life in the here and now.

But yes, I am OK. Mostly.

Tom

PS – The picture was taken at Winterthur. Winter gardens have always been a perfect metaphor for purgatory for me. A beautiful waiting.