haunting the self

if memory could reduce, or expand the slide show
the multitude of voices turning phrases out in lyric sheets
if the fact of this memory were only more concrete

instead the days are ghosts:
the people I don't see
the women I don't fuck
the children now become adults

what has become of me
hidden with Lindsay's ghost
imagining a unified field theory
in the mist of these memories


Einstein spent the last part of his life attempting to posit a "unified field" theory. He could never get it and no one really ever has been able to say it "all" in the equations that are the language of the theoretical physcist. Lindsay refers to Cousin Vachel, whom all Springfield poets must at least acknowledge if not honor. I honor him, though, having spent entirely too much time in his shoes. He had a hard road to how and it sounds like it might've been even stupider than mine on the subject of the romantic liaison. Enough theory, I need it to be real in some specific fashion.