This page was almost a blank one except for the title.
I was hoping for a shocking effect,
like a naked man wearing a cap.
The first draft of that sparse title would have implied
all that emptiness
was for our Stanley.
But that’s all wrong.
He deserves a tribute but not that tribute.
How can I offer him a blank page
after he’s filled so many
with home, gardens, love
and the surreal musically wandering through, sometimes,
like an irrational ice cream truck.
SO then I thought that perhaps,
I might offer this mostly blank page instead
to the children of Darfur
or the silenced women of Nicaragua
or the gathered masses in Auschwitz
or the uncles whose blood ran into the Cambodian rice paddies.
At some point that blank page was an offering for us all,
but it quickly died of generality and then decomposed.
it turned first into something for no one and then into nothing for anyone.
“What about the earth, what if this blank page is for the ravaged Earth?”
I asked myself, and I’ll pretend for your sake I asked it out loud in an empty room.
And then I imagined how this empty paper was once a tree.
And wondered how the tree might feel
if the tree could feel
about it’s once-flesh passing through my printer nearly empty
to honor that tree’s loss.
And so my resolution for them all is just this:
I will fill up the papers
I will speak of them
because they can not.