more old poems #2
I know I’m drunk because when I rub my bare feet together, it’s heaven. The action rings the nerves along the smooth topside of my foot and the pressed sliding tickles my brain. I fucking purr.
I’m not at home in case you’re wondering.
You should be wondering.
It’s funny. I spend so much time trying not to be myself but I spend so much more time trying to convince people about who I am. And it makes them wonder, Did you find another bed to sleep in?
Yeah, I did.
I know I said I wouldn’t. But calm down. I didn’t have sex.
We’re watching T.V. and they’re telling us that the war has been over but everything is still kind of shit. They play old footage of elections from couple years ago and people are still fearful of the roads. I thought the broadcaster sounded sarcastic.
I’m not trying to be anyone with her. I pressed no versions of myself to come here. I was simply true and she asked me over. She leaned her head against mine and said we can’t be apart tonight.
Maybe she felt how confused and scared I was. I mean, it did happen, what happened before. We can never forget it. But I feel like I did forget it. It just melted away like every other thing that happened and it’s just something to be considered for context.
She whisked me off to her place and it felt like she was telling me who I am. Everything happened so quickly. She pulled out a bottle from her cabinet and asked me to tell her everything while she kissed my neck.
Naturally, I couldn’t say anything. My eyes rolled to the back of my head.
She whispered into my ear, What’s your name?
The T.V. changed to a late night comedy news show. They were making fun of the presidential campaign and they made a list of a candidate’s dissonant -isms. No, I will not hire Muslims — I will give every candidate an opportunity to be a part of our government. The channel changed and Spurlock was eating fries. I think I sat on the remote.
And, I lied. Yeah, I lied about my name. It’s stupid. I have a common name. I know. But I still lied. It will make it harder for her to remember me. She’ll call me by my false name and that regrettable thread between me and her will not shake. I won’t feel a thing when she thinks about me. No tug. No vibrations. No real memory. She’ll forget me or at least remember someone else not me.
I did have sex with her. I wasn’t confused. After, I sat on the edge of her bed while she told me a story about her ex and I rubbed my feet together. It was heaven. I can scratch the spots no one can touch on my body. She said her ex was bad and controlling. She said he was aggressive and showed me a bruise on her thigh. I’d noticed it before. She said I felt different.
The T.V. turned off and there was a silence. I thought it was time to leave.
I kissed her shoulder and she tried to pull me back to bed but the sun was coming. The sun is true. I can see it myself.
I kissed her again and again. And she asked where I was going but I didn’t say a word. But then I kissed her again because I felt how confused she was.
I told her that it was time for me to go. We’ll run into each other again. Let’s let it be natural.
You. Who do you think I am? Why do you assume these things about me? I’m more than the glance and the scoff. I’m not just this story. I go back hundreds of years. I go forward until the end of time. I’m not just me. I’m everyone.
I turned on the T.V. to break the silence. I put on my socks. They felt dirty.
She watched me dress.
Who do I think I am? I wondered.
I went on dressing. There was a commercial for frozen pizzas. Then a morning show started to talk about Mormons and the controversy over a new law in Utah. Theocrazy, one of the heads at the table quipped. And after a few minutes of conversation on that, there was a news report for something about Spain and holiday shopping figures. Not one mention of it.
I left without saying goodbye. It’s not easy to leave like that. It’s something you have to work your mind to do. It’s something learned. We can’t be sentimental anymore. The world is fast and it’s going faster. Wars come and go. Girls spend their morning in their beds alone. Buildings fall. People grow rich and poor in a day. Everything and everything faster and faster.
*
Did you already forget the story?
I hope she did.
These familiar strangers with names like Joy, Stillness, Loneliness, Love, they’ve all gathered here at this table to discuss the matter at hand.
This work could not be delegated to the body, no, this is the work of strangers. They must decide.
What to do with you? They wonder. What to do, what to do, how can we fill the room?
We can’t fill the room, says Happiness, It’s just to big.
But we can try, says Excitement, We can try.
But the room is locked, adds Doubt, We can’t get in.
We’ll just break the door, shouts Anger, Just break it down.
That will just break him, calms Love, And the world will rush in.
Rush in and absorb him, continues Pain, And he will be no more.
So I guess we have no choice, sighs Loneliness, It will just be filled by Emptiness.
What shame, says Joy, I guess that’s it.
These old friends part ways. Unable to help. They enter the street and see the body with Emptiness on the bench.
Poor kid, says Sympathy, Poor kid.
Depression approaches and places a hand on his shoulder. Says,
Poor kid.
We’ve all been consumed, subverted, co-opted to some greater narrative that links every single one of us. And we don’t know a single word beyond this story.
This is funny because there is no reality to find anymore. There is no meaning of life waiting for us to discover it. It, standing in the rain with open arms ready to embrace us. It, isn’t there. We make our own reality but somehow the making our own world is a sinking in, deeper, us becoming more saturated in the bigger world, the singular world.
If I really pay attention to the water as I swim, I stop swimming and I feel the water filling up my lungs. It’s painful. Born to the sea. Dead to the sea.
So, relax. Forget about it. All I want to do is shut the fuck up and kiss some girl who has never read a poem in its entirety.
I want to go out with her and take her to a movie that everyone assumes we will see this weekend. I want to watch her drink Coca-Cola from a glass bottle and I want to know she is worrying about her figure. I want her to mention all the catch-phrases of our popular political moments. I want to nod and accept her. I want to sneak into her house and lie about the number of girls I’ve slept with and I want her to lie and say she loves me. When I wake up, I want to see the light from my phone before the light from the sun. Then I want to kiss her and tell her to marry me.
I can’t imagine a color I’ve never seen even if I suspect it.
No more words. I don’t know who they belong to.
old poem from old tumblr. still think this is one of the best poems i ever wrote. my writings changed.
I’m walking the path between lecture halls and a thought wanders in and makes itself known. It is wearing a significant red and on the realization that the thought is no longer a thought but a perspective, it, the red, bursts out and tints all my sight a subdued rose. I’m moved a few inches from my core and I see the world from an angle I have never experienced before. This thought has burrowed into my time and adds a smooth bump to the experience of every second. Even the past must now be reconsidered to search for this thought and all my expectations of the future are shed. It is exhilarating and I feel exposed and unshelled. How have I always thought this thought but have never absorbed it until now? What changes but everything? Who am I to me now? And where do you belong in this remapping, reconstruction of everything?
Crisis comes and drinks my wine and settles on my bed,
How quiet the thoughts that alert me to her presence.
She says, It’s been too long my dear. Way too long I fear.
She locks her toes with mine. I am unafraid.
She lies on top of me and wraps her arms and locks her hands along my spine.
She nuzzles her nose to my exposed neck.
She breathes out her air and it creates a rash on my skin.
Remember, remember, She asks of me.
I do remember and the streets of my heart explode in riot. The thumps of explosions and the clash of blood on the crowded pathways murmur about my chest.
Her hand reaches down for me and all security is gone.
She says, I’ve needed you for so long.
Back here we are again. Our toes curl.
There is an emergency somewhere and it is my fault. Someone is crying because I’ve taken and made mine a love that was once his. Now it is my crisis and she licks her teeth before my eyes.
Remember this? She calls as she straddles me. She beckons me to rise.
I’ve taken and made mine a love that was once his but before mine. I’ve taken back from him the roar of a burning building. I’ve taken back from him the smell of gas coming from the rubble.
Crisis is here and my lips are pressed to hers and we are trying to revive each other.
There is a flood somewhere about my ankles. The world and all drifts off and nothing matters.
Crisis is here. She has destroyed everything. I don’t care.
one of the writings from my chapbook about the body. it’s about the gut. here is a previous post about hands.
it’s just a draft but the whole thing coming together pretty quickly.
