less than a poem (jumble, jumble)

ran into my uncle at the bookstore today
he thought I looked verklempt
like he could see all I’d been thinking about
the whole day, the week, the month
these last six months of desert and ghost love
(I could stand religion if he were the god above)

words and phrases stick in my brain
trying to become poetry but mostly failing,
“turncoat,” “turncoat” was one of the words
and a meaningless name, “Chaindamere”

everyone wants to plan to be something,
I thought “sometimes, something…”
was a pretty good form to begin with,
like sometimes, something seems true or
to have a reason,
and that “sometimes, something” stands in
as a disclaimer

because everything has an exception,
that’s a rule—
sometimes I think I never wanted to be an artist
all I wanted was to be a priest,
to find peace, didn’t I begin
screaming at the sky when I was in my teens?
after my first lover and I fell apart
I had to know if living had any more reason.

I started a poem the other day,
it tried to take all my loves and make them
analogous to the train tracks where I worship,
one my steel locomotive,
one my high-voltage tower high overhead,
one my verdant farm field bathed in sun.
and then I got to thinking
of colors, how I went
from red to blue and back again
but it never got any farther than that.

ran into my uncle at the bookstore today
and he thought my eyes were wet,
but I was just tired,
or so I said.