give me a different life

i always think about this French chef 
who committed suicide
a long time ago

i'm sure you heard about it,
he was so troubled with everything

                     i don't want to be like him
                     i have nothing to lose
                     and that's something i never forget

i'm starving
let's go get some breakfast
and some coffee, okay?

we're in the weeds, okay?  in the weeds
we love to be in the weeds

              you know, a lot of artists were here

triggering something inside of you,
the memories inside of you

is very important

                     you have to look at yourself and be hard on yourself
                     every fig will bleed milk if it is not ripe
                     memory is very important

looked at my life and said
"i am not happy"

it was too beautiful,
in a way,

       not in a literal way

you had all the sensation of life
sweetness bitterness darkness
a simple recipe

who doesn't want to work
with someone like that?

give me a different life
we would hide here
my little bedroom

                     i thought that was amazing
                     i cried that day, for sure
                     i know i am doing the right thing

you need to be hard on yourself
reflect on what matters,
what doesn't matter

what i remember
the only thing he told me:

       I do love you.

for how long?

       Until the end of my life.


Sunday in the Garden

I knew you would want
to talk about Kant or Descartes
or Hume again, how can I 
compete with them?
And this time
it's free will; you tell me
Physics doesn't leave
much room for choice--what if
everything has already been laid out?
                  I reach for a pastry,
taking the beignet
gently in my fingers, letting the sugar glaze
melt a little in the morning sun.
You lean back 
on your elbows and ask
me or the sky, what if it's all
I polish off
the doughnut, licking
my fingers clean then rolling
up the cuffs of my jeans
That's called determinism, I say
and it haunts me.
You pause on that,
is there any other way?
Then you take my ankles
and swing my legs into your lap.
I lay back, shoulder blades
pressed flat into the grass
beneath the devstating canopy of clouds
and think about agency and freedom:
Chaos, I say
as if it's half a question. Spontaneity,
as if it's something
that I want very much
but am afraid to afraid to ask for.
You're holding my small pink feet
in your hands, everything about you,
unbearbly wistful.
                Which is worse?
Before I think too hard about it, I hear myself
answer: I don't care
as long as there is God.
What I mean
is I want both
freedom and meaning--
that's what we all want
don't we?
The things we can't ever seem
to get our hands on.