the words in a poem, on Li Young Lee

His face silhouetted against
the angular painted busts
talking about God and the universe
and knowing nothing.
blazer and collared shirt over jeans
acting the part
mysterious starving artist
rasping out truth.
Feeling myself breathing every word:
the identification
that comes
when one really knows
In this room full of half smiles
awe and hope
eagerness reflected in their wide eyes
each looking to be the next to find the truth.
His hands nervously trace the wrinkles of an envelope
Long writers’ fingers
and I am entranced.
My words coming from every moment
a whole life culminating
over and over
each second the paths trace backwards
to yesterday.
He comes to life as his words take over his face
stretching and molding
his personality writing itself in scribbled cursive
on his forehead
trickling out
oozing through
my whole body trembling
in fear of the truth.
Submitting ourselves
as writers
as slaves
emptying our bodies of life onto the page.
Our ink taking shape
bleeding out of us
so this paper has a pulse
throbbing rhythm
so I can continue
writing on.
A demonized prophet
a poet
a painter of pictures on pages
and experiencer of rages
He says that’s what we are.
Does he know he’s preaching to a congregation
of the lost,
Hoping to be found somewhere in his sentences.
Searching for ourselves
and excuse for feeling different
“one mind in different quadrants”
reminding each other we’re okay.
This is the William and Mary I’ve been searching for.
The people who make me feel okay