Posts tagged: words that i wrote
Something of a holiday, but don’t kiss you there. Well that’s one sense down. How about all five. How about I’m going down. How about I’ll see you there. It was something of a busy day, you asked me why I was so quiet, but Jesus, have you ever read my poetry? Anything but quiet. So if you want to hear me holler, take me by the page, turning and turning. But tell me to shut up for a minute, and let’s make this something of a good day.
Exactly, I turned around, into something of a conversation. You weren’t speaking to me. They were hearing voices, I was voices going unheard. Dialogues with deities are always going nowhere. Is there anybody out there? I don’t know who I was talking to, the void, or an echo, or maybe everything all at once. They said pray, and I did. They said believe, and I tried. And I shook and faltered, I waited for holy ghosts. I gave another name for myself, not a given name, but one that was taken. One that you should never know.
Did you misspeak? I think I was trembling but overheard that you were overthinking over there. Did your words fail to close the distance that broke itself between our lacking ideologies? I’m always mumbling, but I’m pretty sure my listening is pitch perfect. 20/20, but for ears, of course. Another thing, your mouth was closed. You moved your tongue in silence that moved in time with the music of the spheres. And something else, you were about to say, before I rudely interrupted.
I was aching for fanfare. You were asking for anything, or what’s another word for ‘asking for anything.’ Begging. Give me something so I can call it my own- I want to carve you out from whatever it is this whole goddamn universe is made out of. Point particles or some vibrant strings stretched out from the abstract, another word for innards and something that heaves its guts out. Fucking. What was it when we were bathing in shame? Another word for why are we doing this? Have you got it? Anything at all? Anything to call my own? A yes or no will do.
tell me my body is an image
of an image of a heck-of-a
man, who is man less than
or more than man who
tells me my body is an image
of an image of a heck-of-a
lot of what came before.
…
i’m more kin to smolder
than feathers of phoenix or
the sting of deadweight
sunlight. More aware
of your disinterest than
you ever knew. Yes, there
is attraction, there
is a passion that leaves me
in ashes at your feet.
…
took photos shed of your in-
hibitions. didn’t think I saw
what I saw, where your skin
was shadow-boxed against his.
you haven’t waken me up
since I was in love. And yet
this morning, I still don’t love
you
but that’s not the only thing.
…
your body is shadow skin,
the valley of death i’ve seen
constellated
in your contortion, deep folds
where arms are arms lengths
away. if it and every stranded
thought I own took you at your
offer, illuminated
with your other worldly light
as sure, stark pastures
subdued in your manners,
graces of your motives
unanswered but for your
guiding hand, who then
felt all weights unheave,
the relative merits of
distances in an aware
topography, great in
scale as holistic in approach,
the virtued action at a closeness
redefining a blur in the fantasy
program, the heavenly bodies
were caught in hands and
glances, a lover taut and
welling, colossal and real.
…
if I don’t believe in brother Christ,
like my peers and their peers before.
if every ancestor either rots
in their Hell, or rots in their Heaven.
who’s dying for my sins
who’s turning to skin and
blood in my salvated mouth.
who would keep me, and who
would lead me lost.
…
So I am through, darling,
the looking-glasses, your eyes,
your eyes consider it an equal
weight, but I feel heavier than
a want. and you can watch
through the screen, my body
red-green-blue, and motion
play to pause. play to please.
…
There’s a time for sitting in open arms with those wild lively eyes. We were the hilltops in the early life of spring. I could here us laughing for years into the future.
What time is it? Could there be another questions so unsure, so unfit? I want to write a feeling that is equal parts an undoing. Love, it is repeated, is splendid with you and yours. But I’ve found this unwoven tapestry, I’ve let loose a conspiracy for malignancy among the branches in my lungs. A sweet heart beats against a temperament that is self-ill-advised. Nothing was quelled then. But didn’t you sink just beneath the surface? Didn’t you rise as another coming? And is it suffering for someone else to be happy? Is it love if it’s been all this time? I can’t believe I want to take hold of you, as if my rage could contain your every freedom. This want is desolate. This longing is overdone. How long then, is letting go?
Oh, you sucker for your language. I haven’t got the heart-felt goodbye left in me. She said you were mumbling, and so what if I were? So, what-if’s: always a chance to pry loose the consequence when it came hammering down. I fed my excitement over-hand into the jealous mouth of anxiety. Kept it well fed but wore its teeth down. I had smears of ink on the edge of my palms, saying more in those blots than in any selected verse of my word. Your refrain, always go buy the book. But I had always brought my own.
Well it can’t be felt from the outside. We were moving much faster than I could know. I had swallowed my pride of living inside the stomachs of systems far greater than I would know. I felt digested, but that was the perspective of me as benign bacteria. But then again, I’m a host. I’m stories tall, with a mouth and a willing repertoire, a bone study pulled forth by raw muscle and a directionless will. Great magnitudes gather within and without me. Inside this nerve churns to be found out.
Will you write when the words steel themselves in deepness you are unwilling to explore? Will you gather them in fistfuls as aggregate in your great works? Saying, fuck it, time seals all wounds. Time swallows souls whole. Take your time writing to the phantoms. Because yes, you will be nothing more than the empty space you leave to live in your stead.
