Michael Carroll Green

What is Real­i­ty (and Who)?

Who am I?
Am I the per­son I think I am -
the per­son you think I am,
or the per­son they think I am.

I pick “E” — None of the above.

Real­i­ty is mal­leable at best;
unde­fin­able at worst.

Who I am
is changed each time it is reflect­ed
through my own mind.

More still, when reflect­ed
through the mind
of anoth­er sen­tient being.

I think the best that any of us can hope for
is that our attempts to be the best,
trans­late into and back from
oth­er peo­ple in some sim­i­lar fash­ion.

Each take at an action -
each take at “I am”
goes out in a mil­lion pieces
before com­ing back to us
as reflec­tions seen by oth­ers.

Real­i­ty.

Is it hard­er to be who every­one thinks you are,
or who you know you are?

Hard­er to live with­in the per­cep­tions of the world,
or with­in the whole­ness of your heart?

And what is right? Where is Truth?
Who is best served — more adjust­ed; less insane?

I know a truth that is impos­si­ble.
Unre­al.

And yet it IS truth.
IS real.
Real­i­ty.

For more than half a cen­tu­ry,
this truth has lived in dark­ness -
Removed —

From real­i­ty,
and the hope that it might fade
with the pass­ing of time.

But noth­ing is so sim­ple.
No heart, no hope, no truth.

And real­i­ty?
That’s what we live.
Truth remains, though -
Stays there, wet and weep­ing.
an incon­ve­nient hon­esty
left drip­ping out­side
after the rain.

Just a couple of Misfits.....

Wild Boy.

I used to know this Wild boy -
	Sweet, but not tidy.

He had a way about him
	that would remind you
of unlocked doors,
	and wrinkled shirts.

I know he never tried
	to keep order at arm’s length.

Not on purpose, anyway.

He just attracted devilment
	with every move he made.

He was full to overflowing -
	with art,
		and heart,
			and mischief.

All that,
	and the kind of smile
		that reached all the way
			up to his eyes.

You knew he was a rascal
	the minute he flashed that smile.

But you never cared.

I guess he came across
	a little hard-edged to some,
but he wasn’t.

He had a heart so big,
	and full of love,
that it brought tears to my eyes
	more times than not.

Like most Wild Boys,
	you couldn’t help but like him -
love him, really.
	Everybody who knew him did.

He had a line of suitors,
	hoping to catch his eye.
and although sex was never far
	from the surface,
it was love he hoped for - 

Love,
	and intimacy - 

Both of which he often found elusive,
	as they can be with Wild boys,
		and people in general,
	who turn left instead of right.

I suspect that in the end,
	it was the hole in his heart
that brought him down.

An emptiness -
	A Stillness,
		a sickness of the Soul.

	Few people survive it - 

Even Wild boys.

Lunchbag.

Shopping today,
I saw a whole section of paper bags.

	They sat, unattended -
In the middle of the bread aisle.
	Stacked high.

Took me back four decades - 

	I remember packing bags like that.
Making lunches, or dinners.

	Depends, I guess, what you call it
when your day begins at 3pm
	and runs to midnight.

	Shift work. Quotas.
Production lines.
	A whole segment of my life
that still lives, not only in my memory,
		but also in my mind’s eye.

Shopping today,
	I saw a world that was never part of me,
but WAS part of me just the same.

I felt as far away from that world as I did
	the day I lived it.

But I lived it.
	Stacked spools, gathered spent ones,
		bent my back, and stretched high
to place filled ones
	on spinning machines -

Like so many spinning plates in a magic act.

But there was no magic there.

There was - 

	Hard work.
		Broken backs, and spent dreams.

I watched, knowing I was bound to escape -
	Leave those paper bags behind.

I’d forgotten them til today - 

Paper bags,
	production lines,
		tomato sndwiches -
and foreign relations.

Standing Outside.

Some people said She was not quite right,
	but I never saw that.

It was true,
	She came from places,
and maybe, saw some
	that most of them had never seen,
		except out of the corner of their eyes.

Right at the edge - 

And at the Edge,
	of everything they expected,
		and everything they knew.

But She was not crazy.

She was Wild, for sure,
	but not wanton.

Graceless, in a way, and yet,
	full of Grace.

Loyal as the hounds she raised,
	and just as hungry for hunting.

She made a case for understanding,
	and the acceptance of people outside the norm
just by being.

I never thought she’d intended to stand outside.

It was just where life put her,
	and changing it was beyond her grasp,
like choosing not to be.

Some said she might have fit in better somewhere else,
	but that would have meant leaving. 

And she meant to stay here,
	wanted it - 

Was anchored in this Place,
	and with the People
		who brought her into this World.

Her people, and yet not.

I think they looked at her just like most people did -
	without ever understanding who she was.	

But they never pushed her out to the edge,
	or over it.