here is the author before he is famous

here is the author before he is famous,

I, sitting here writing this, seeing my book,

my book, on a couch in a friend’s apartment.

the light hits the side of the blinds

that I cannot see, the light that will later

enter and then leave and then enter again

in a long gold bar, as we watch shine,

the blinds bowing inwardly beautifully

and then settling against the open window

over and over. this is the time of my life

when my search for meaning has no ceiling,

when my sense of self depends on others’

rewarding me for this search, when my

life, in truth, seems only to wink, itself,

with, one moment, meaning and, the next,

a transparency made opaque by the nothing

I know is the answer a quest with no end

implies. the profoundest truth is this:

I will never be more famous than I am now

here in my friend’s apartment, in august

in berkeley, the rewards all around me

and the ceiling there, closer than I think.

this is life’s greatest truth, as the base

for any truth: fame ignores this, and so do I.