Communal Imagination

I think my mind has sunk too deep too many times
Those violent episodes playing like the evening news
in my head
on loop
In my memory blood is scattered everywhere
and I only get a sign, a symbol,
a fuzzy picture of what might have happened
Who was there?
And why?
why, why, why
the question sings me to sleep on drunken nights
when I fall into a bed
that feels like a casket and
I imagine the night closing over me
like the cold door of my tomb
bony fingers prodding me for answers I don't know

I know there must be a choice
if I could only smooth over some synapses
like a mechanic
I'd oil and polish every space in between
sadness and happiness
to lessen the confusion

I don't know the why or the how or the what
I only know there was a woman in Brazil
who wrote down detailed notes
of her day
everyday
She built a rope with words
and lassoed herself to every corner of the world

There must be something in between
everything that has been explained
in that space there must be a white, blue, orange chaos
A whole world of difference waiting to be discovered
A communal imagination waiting to be realized.