Posts tagged: words that i wrote
and this is birth from tragedy, not
the birth of tragedy, not farce,
if you like it unexaggerated, then by
any means and by many means
pull myself together
like twine strained between your fingers,
and you mention how my soul quivers
how my numb limbs swinging
at your waistside no longer
make you feel drawn to me,
but still, it’s love but still,
and still an apology, and why
would that make it better, if it
won’t make me better, as
you are a Tree of Life,
and I know good, and I know evil,
but I am an upright shallow grave
with a winter seed where
my heart should be beaten,
fingers trawling through your
intricate branches, afraid
to be so close to this
compassion. when I have
turned away at every chance
of your embrace
and I don’t know what this
all means, and by all means
it means so much more than
I’ve considered. my vague
sense of unease misplaced
by your direction.
I’ll say it. Make sure you’re worth your words. If not, sit on silence and stand somehow like you would if you weren’t your father’s son. If you were instead like your mother’s shadow. If you were instead a saving’s grace. But your sins are senseless. In the willful numbing of foresight, and for skin, and for some reason doing all wrong again. And why? Because you’re word isn’t your word. No blame for another. Not a word.
My senses said, well all’s fair in love in war. And since we’ve said long before that if you don’t love me, leave me. If you don’t want me, don’t need me. If I don’t please you onceing-over ruts, licking at these divots, touching at your cuts. All the skin worn places where you used to use to hurt. Then what’s worse, where we were or where we’ve went from there.
I spoke out and thought it unsavage and insincere. But faith in failure is easily grasped. See how you’ve taught yourself to fear one who loves you through each transgression, your unique cruelty, and touches awe-filled the face of your unrealized multitudes. And so soulmate, self seer, the stubborn steward of our fates, bear down on me, press into me from flesh to flesh, time to time, and word to word
until we’re worn down through non-stop articulation. Take my body as canvas. And art as elusive, illusory, ill-advised. Find what you’ve stolen inside yourself, once as a pouring but now as pitch. Bury the tap. Drink it well. And take care.
a whole another thought for
missing over before what hush you
muttered then again what is
not that this is, once again
hurt what your what was,
what was name calling, less of feeling
in again our first once once
kissed and folded early as
warm laundry fucked over
sure were, lost again
found yourself mouth
of fingers wrapped
like teeth, slept again
over night, morning
colored by TV
flashing light carry
over air, thin wave
kept your thigh on
crawled in over
here again, were
what you wouldn’t wear, wore
over naked bathtubs, fell under
over her, snapped a neck
lace and fine knees,
waited kiss, want
our weekend on our
backs, when again
we were gentle trying on our bodies,
and you had a taste like silver, like you
traded skin with the moon. and still
you were softer and more tender,
with your kisses on my open palm.
I could have fed you off of this,
I could have fed you to the lions,
and found you in their fur
could have set aside you
pulled the spoon from out behind
your teeth, where your muscles move
to to make their song under-and-overture.
and all kind, and all grace, and all nurtured
waves of warmth your body had memorized
take turns lulling me back into you, guiding
my out-streched hand to your every new familiar.
will you think me pitiful
to dress me down to a name,
a skin, nails and what little hair
rolling on the roofs of cars
underneath you or a sky
or a heaven hanged hushed
thinking once again of
a January girl, where you
were hot-headed and wanting
back when my arms and hands
not a scratch on it as if virgin
birthed, as if warmed once over again
as if it never hurt, how it always hurt,
calling out to you, be here but be gone,
then take me as I am, and what i wasn’t
every time I write you I mention,
goddamn, your body and my body
stuck together like folding papers.
you know it wasn’t the only thing. it was
always this memory, and I’m begging
to live inside you, as close as I can get.
there are days, most of them,
like today, where I can’t call you lover, where
you won’t say I love you, days that
I was afraid I always had coming.
i’ve been hard on this drive, keep seeing
pictures, hangers-on of phantom limbs,
i’ve been guilty of this, this lover’s sight-
blank like a pervert’s every-other-night.
lurid, wasps on orchids. we were all thinking it
so I’m asking what will that accomplish?
nothing and nothing-buts, but that’s the point
of asses to ankles, and imprints of elbows
you were the cast and characters, drawn like
rainfall in a bucket, and clenched fists on miles
of treated rope. Untied over bruises, welts, and knots
played too close to the chest, insisting still.
I have wandered in on eight knuckles, two knees,
then grown swollen, steeped, and wrapped unworn,
asking, then begging, you to be familiar just for tonight.
you were off-limits:
got enlightened, or didn’t
and it felt the same
she’s stitched with husbands
that tell you why bother
how she whispers in your
ear from her safe bouquets
I’m following hemlines, that’s
a week on my knees, broken
hymns in the late-nights
we make love with no tells
but I’m something of a desirer.
despised her and tattle-told
of a fantasy, don’t you know
how you’ve been weighing
on me like a spiritual mass
and an unheard voice, then
an undrawn shirt and
what inevitably followed
and I should have said,
“no, wait.” but didn’t
and why is that.
thigh tucked under knee
and burst full-tongued peeling
up-and-over opened petals,
we shouldn’t be as naked
as the snow: so, white and
bearing down, but keep the
door open, won’t you
wind up on your back,
and I’ve lost my legs
and did it hurt, I hope it
arm caught over-hand
and thrust all-wronged deepening
through your willing skin,
i’m seeing this again,
isn’t that your old man’s routine.
the son is the new father is the new god
with rings on the eves. so many questions of,
"how did you know," or, "or did you know."
what is it, of flowers
and of babes and bushels and churches
and there ain’t a dress white enough,
and a ceremony of
underneath the grass has grown
sticking to the soles of your feet
and nothing has changed.
who’s names were
arch-backed heroine of melancholic,
a skilled sweat heart attack
echoing words on words
reared back on sunken hearts, she
worked a wound, and socks are falling off
and so is this second skin. Using
my body as a bludgeon,
i want you over-warmed
i want: your all encompassing
felt a little off, but got it on and,
fit a little tight, but loosened up again,
want a pusher-backer, gives into
a skin scratcher, strangled by the ankles up,
backed-down, hard to know it
when you’re knee-throated
gasping her names over names.
it’s the summer not quite fall
and i’ve had a heaving body aching
restless about knees and elbows
choking on holy hollers, greedy fingers,
sins of lovers, and the love of sinners.
i’m friend of friends, not the best of man,
still no-takers, all we are are finder keepers.
lost venturers, but nothing gainers.
you couldn’t fit in with the body of another,
and the other, well. I wouldn’t tell you how
it’s been in the many years of my wakened
wonder of things I “hadn’t thought about.”
Oh stop. You’re saying every pretty thing. It’s been meaningless, but it’s been a blast. And I’m glad to have had you, but I’ve got to watch you go. But stop, don’t stop. Oh this ending won’t end, so find your way back to where we got this going. And leave me something when you’ve gone again. Not words, you overuse them. Saying things like, “it’s been too long,” when you’ve made it so. Save your soft words, just remember this time: be kind.