Hydraulic Pressure
Aug 31 2009


I’ve been told the past
is bad for me.
That I immerse myself
in its tepid bath-water —
knees poking-out
like 2 pale craggy islands;
the grey grim ring
sloshing-up against enamel;
my goose-bumped skin
marinated nicely.

I talk back
about lessons learned
trajectories into the future;
nostalgia, regret
recrimination.

If only I was a master of Zen,
I could float in this perfect temporal plane
in body temperature water,
conditioned with soothing salts
some healing fragrance;
the isolation chamber
of the ever-forgetful now.

But what they don’t take into account
is the hydraulic pressure of memory.
How it seeps through
cracks in the bedrock.
How it gushes-up
unexpectedly.
How incompressible,
it makes its way out.

Continents are worn away
sand, ground down finer,
and a human body emerges
cleansed —
water sluicing off impervious skin,
long hair streaming,
skin tingling
from the bracing cold.

As I grow old
the future shrinks,
time moves faster.
Without memory
a man’s soul desiccates
turns to dust.
So if I pour out the past,
soon, I would be nothing.