Backstories

Backstories 

People of our age usually have a story

One that can read like a comparison to some other composition

Of humans we have encountered

As taking this year from him or this fortnight from her  

And in the patchwork it might be possible to assemble

A mirrored image from the fractured glass

So it is I imagine there is round-about manner of knowing me

Or the story there of  

The fragments of history sluiced through with butcher blades

Chopped and recreated as a an amalgamation of muscles and fibers

Construed about the surgeon’s table to be as what some would call a man

If the bystanders to the procedures saw the output  

Get up and walk about the campus of great enlightenment

The body has legs, feet, hands and a mandible capable of sarcasm

I could outline this figure to you, yet I am hesitant that this can be done

In any amount of time commensurate with my estimation as approaching appropriate  

In a period in which your patience will not exhaust

Therefore I am presented with the quandary of what is a sufficient definition

Of character of history of nothingness of substances, of something empirically

Capable of replication in the grand laboratories of men of science and reason  

That I seek to astound with my Olympics of personal substance and intriguing

Thoughts in which I have invested into my allotment of days

I must be far too conceded to simply let these aphorisms float like dandelion seeds  

To chance that you may understand and yet  

I know if I truly try to explain I will lose you to throes of appearing desperate to rationalize

My self-worth, which in every case this is not, I am content and confidant

In the logic of my choices my divide between love and fear is of satisfactory apportionment

I am thankful for my caution and my frivolity  

My concern bears fruit in the totality of potential left to the belly of the gutter

Slandered mute for lack of introduction and not knowing the date of if or when it shall ever

Find another opportunity for illumination in the bows of auditory discourse

I am perplexed to leave this detail void and this other as nourishment 

I am the congregation of this mixture and the prize of discernment is awaiting my earnest pursuit

So for now I will stand collared quiet, wanting only to answer those questions asked directly

Knowing any excess will surely drown me in a drunkard’s intake of demise