Have you forgotten, dear Self,
Your innocence, or the time you were in love,
Or the sound of the rain? Oh, the sound of the rain,
Let it tickle away my loneliness and caress me.

Have you forgotten when you played in the sand dunes?
The sand dunes outside the only home you knew,
And we had little rabbits, and my little sister was really happy.

Have you forgotten 1990 and the sirens of war?
Have you forgotten the missiles, the hailstorm,
How we all stood outside with buckets
And gathered ice cubes that tasted like nothing,
But we all believed in ourselves and the grace of God,
So they tasted like saffron tea?

Have you forgotten the tree branch,
The ape, your amnesia, your delusion?
The Self is empty and wary of strangers.
The Self stands alone barricaded with reason, exalted, benevolent.
The Self was reborn almighty Athena;
O Athena, have you forgotten the death you brought about this world?


Have you forgotten baby Noah,
Sleeping in a willow basket
And how he would have woken up furious
Had you killed yourself?

Dear Self, don’t cry too much.
Don’t write too much.
Don’t lose yourself in reveries and Sunday church bells,
And wall yourself in lecture halls
And the cold mountains of logic,
Or the beige-wall thought of machine existence.

Don’t eat too much
And lose yourself in serotonin, sorrow dreams
And silhouettes of sleeping death.

Have you forgotten your Self,
The forgotten candle left in the corner,
A dying ember burning itself into a quiet storm
Waiting to kiss Aphrodite and the glory of dawn?