i have a box of white woven envelopes that i'm not using
and they're all hypothetically addressed to you,
i have pages of postage and paper and boxes of pens
and all you have to offer, all you want to ask is
what have i, how have i, where have i been

as if the three hour time difference wasn't an excuse,
or a reason
or a red flag
or a prominent facilitator of our inability to communicate,

i've been in california with paragraphs and portraits and palettes,
with incomplete third acts
with unnatural dialogue
with characters who have no voice
with nothing to propel the story forward,

oh, the invincible ironies of living in los angeles,
where art is always an imitation of something else trying to be something,

everyone here is writing the playbook,
with last minute revisions, drafting their quarterback from scratch,
the picture-perfect protagonist, their hero with a head-shot,
he's the same character with the same arc and the same yardage left,
with the same clock ticking behind him,
although the weather might be different, the grass might be wet,
although there might be an injury, or an obstacle, or astro turf,
it's all the same metaphor

this is how hard we've worked, with seconds on the clock
this is how far we've come, these are the odds we beat,
this is where we are with seconds left and
the world waits around us in slow motion for an outcome, for an upset, for a story

and all you have to offer, all you want to ask is
what have i, how have i, where have i been.

09/19/2007

Posted on 09/19/2007
Copyright © 2026 Frankie Sanchez