oftentimes
i find my voice
not to my liking
the sound of it
reminds me of
prison windows
the east river in january
or empty lots
gardened by slumlords

somedays
the mirror tells me
to look away
that face
forever soured
by 33 years
of 33 years
regardless
of the joys
carefully tended to
and nurtured
in my soul's nursery

my body
has plotted
with my mind
to overthrow
my spirit

over the years
as a child
ripe with fantasies
i imagined
my skin peeling back
and giving way
like a chrysalis
to reveal
the diamond armor
i wore in my dreams
and my face
my real face
would finally
agree with me
and smile

aging
brought me
the despairing knowledge
of me:
i would do
no great things
i would not
be heard
and all i would amount to
would be what
was left to put
in the ground

the many pieces of me
i have catalogued
over the slow and
plodding
parade of years
display a checklist
of items
that amount to
a lesser value
than what they equal

it is those
moments when
i become suddenly
aware of one
particular part
of my body-
the tingle of
a hair on
my arm
a slight swelling
in my aikido thumb
the subliminal tightness
of my facial scar-
that cause a smile
to dawn upon
my lips

seperate entities
of sensation
reminding me

i am not what i see

i am more
than what i am