For Brian Fraley
It came to me, whole, in a blink!
I awakened to realize I think
that what reads as self-confidence
mostly reveals that you’ve given a toss
to the dross of all thoughts about how
to the critical mass of the world
you appear to appear to be doing -
how adeptly you’ve managed to look
like a cook or a welder or rector
or wrestler or master of chess -
whose miens and demeanors
profess they’re the best - exactly
what who you imagine the audience
whom you’ve imagined expects.
You imagine yourself as a selfie
of somebody stirring the pot.
Until the reverberant moment
arrives when you catch yourself
being the stirring - no longer
the suave arabesque of a chef
but immersed in immersing
a spoon in the stew and being it
stewing. You’re not Do-er or Do:
you’re what you’ve been Doing.
You began as a proper-ish noun
named Herbert, now Herbert
(though he prefers Herb) is eternally
vanishing rapturously into verb –
shot over the brink from the famished
redactions of measurable to the luscious
sweet seeps of the mammary glands
of the treasurable: he wasn’t
nor isn’t nor One Day Will Be.
From Monday to Sunday, believe me,
he’s not what you’ll think you will see.