The Comfort of Fabrication

     Sometimes words imply a hidden meaning. Sometimes we infer one.

     All of us are guilty of inferring at one time or another. But we may infer a certain interpretation on someone's words because that is what we, subconsciously or not, want them to mean. Doing so either gives us a sense of self-vindication, or justification for blaming the other person; or perhaps we simply want something from that person which he or she can't give us for one reason or another. If the last is true, we find a sort of "fabricated comfort" in our inferral that can sustain us for a lifetime -- even if we're fully aware that it is fabricated. Denial, self-delusion, call it what you will. It's also human.

Pressed Leaves

I'll spin a hundred words from every one
you wrote and weave a blanket, many-hued,
to wrap around me with the setting sun
and let its colors permeate the truth;

or else a woolen mantle of desire,
the white desire possession cannot stain,
to draw about my shoulders when the rain
descends and I am dreaming by the fire.

I only want your words to warm my skin
as autumn folds its chilly limbs around
the earth, when fallowness has claimed its ground
of silence, and the end of life begins.                        (03/11)


[First published in Decanto]