| (we must part now) |
[Oct. 6th, 2009|01:00 pm] |
There is regret. Always, there is regret.
But it is better that our lives unloose,
As two tall ships, wind-mastered, wet with light,
Break from an estuary with their courses set,
And waving part, and waving drop from sight. |
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| what i'm saying is: tick, tick, fucking tick. |
[Sep. 22nd, 2009|02:33 pm] |
and still, this warrior-blood
in the veins. in the absence of options,
you must choose anyway.
i pick beauty; it's a weapon just the same.
the heart, once sharp, still severs
hands for the audacity
to try and touch--god forbid they cradle a thing.
this simultaneous shuttering
and opening. contract-- and release some shrapnel,
(here a mortar, there a shell)
and it's no wonder, no wonder you step so carefully.
palms over your ears to muffle the ringing.
it's too much and you can't
bear it, can't stand the thinking.
so leave me for the city; i will go
another way. trailing propaganda behind me,
just to be safe. to ensure i don't forget,
when you cut to the quick of it, whose side you're on,
the side you'll always take.
and just the same:
i will bear it, of course. i will think
the dangerous thoughts,
become a minefield-- i will tell everyone.
in the absence of options,
start a new war. |
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| back, bitches. |
[Sep. 22nd, 2009|02:00 pm] |
but i can tell you now, i'm not back on my game. the same feverish half-rhymes scribbled on napkins, the back pages of books.
still, fuck. poetry. blood from a stone, you know? |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 16th, 2009|08:26 pm] |
Palaces and storm clouds
The rough, straggly sage
And the smoke
And the way it will all come together
In quietness and in time
And you laws of property
Oh, you free economy
And you unending afterthoughts
You could've told me before
Never get so attached to a poem
You forget truth that lacks lyricism
Never draw so close to the heat
That you forget that you must eat, oh...
this is the last step. the final thread, so tenuous that it snaps at the slightest movement. there's no telling, no warning a person when it will finally break.
you have but to turn your head. this one. last. time.
my dears, i've been backsliding. the minute i understood, i dug my heels in. it took a slap in the face, but i feel the color coming back.
it's done with-- that's not what i want to talk about.
it's just that the timing couldn't be better, really. i'm meant for this sort of solitude, at least in the months of fall. everything around me poised to drift into slumber and i drift, too. gathering purpose. i feel pregnant, but dormant, like before. closer now. something is gestating, slowly, still. i didn't lose it. i'm giving it whatever it needs to grow.
i find ways to give of myself without giving myself away. i make my heart of service-- i remind myself to be kind, to try. even when i go home, the work doesn't stop. i perfect my bechamel, write lines with flour-encrusted hands, i find how far my focus can reach now that it's off the rest. i exist in the bevel of a knife, these kneading hands, inexact measurements and the scent of herbs always on my skin. in ink and perfume, silks and oils, in costumes. in the endless expanding inside me, thoughts and something more salient, something i could never put into words. i cease to be so affected and so, i affect.
and the effect, oh. it is immediate, powerful: everything opens up when i allow it to. fae songs wash back in and every windfall, every full moon takes over the spaces these aches have ceased to inhabit. i vibrate and the walls seem to tremble back at me, votives shimmy on the sills. intuition fills my belly and i dream vividly. it restores me like it used to. i feel that connection as strongly as ever-- particles rippling onward, ferrying us into one another, into everything.
and i want more. i won't be swayed, not this time. we're not long for this world, you know. actually, to put it more accurately: this world isn't long for us. it's dying beneath our feet and not a one of us can save it; we're too late for that. but it's not hopeless. i refuse to be hopeless ever again.
we can save each other, and we can save ourselves, and we can do as much as we can do. we don't have to go down with the sinking ship.
personally, i am through with sinking ships. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 24th, 2008|10:04 am] |
sometimes i almost can recall what it was like before we ever met
sometimes not even that
i was carved
from your rib
from your rib
dust... to dust to dust to dust to dust to |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 13th, 2008|02:10 pm] |
But why do I go on? So long as time continues, one thing is sure: it is given to none of us to behold them-the bright horses of the sun: dispatched, loosed when the first light springs up in the heavens-when Fortune is hostile.
No one knows the extent of her malignity while he can still see the dawn. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 10th, 2008|12:40 am] |
if i am unable to breach
the footholds
the rest of them were
born to climb...
if it's over and done,
and the illusion of eden
dried up and died,
i go on.
singing siren songs,
luring their husbands
from quaint maritial beds.
(they said, they said--)
it's a sin with a price
you didn't consider.
an apple's a promise you'll
regret you ever delivered.
but take it from me,
i am not the agressor.
it's my hips,
my hips, fitting themselves
to lies and making
truth out of the taboo.
it's the hues
of harlots and whores.
we use them
to adorn ourselves:
i paint my lips red and then
they can smell it on me,
these women--
it's war.
i might ruin thier lives. well
i say our lives
start out that way.
we come naked into the day,
and blind,
begin preaching clarity.
when instead we should
learn to crave the fray.
i exist in that place,
and i am not afraid
to sing a song that means 'undone'
to let my hips sing along
and paint my name across
his tongue.
(i go on, i go on.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 1st, 2008|10:55 pm] |
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And if we did burst into flames, what of it? |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2008|08:15 am] |
You are woven out of endless love
it will burst from your lips
your eyes
from your body so impetuously
at the prospect of meeting anyone
that all thoughts of advance notice are forgotten.
And your memory is on fire
with endless loving relationships
that involve just one woman.
--vera anserova |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 5th, 2008|05:37 pm] |
it's too warm to be alive. i keep thinking of the line from romeo and juliet-- 'for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." i don't ache, but nor does a thing sate me. nothing fills me. nothing cools me down. this is a relief you cannot know. i need to feel the seasons. i need to feel like i too will cycle back.
all that's happened-- desperation invites herself in. we talk of the weather until i can no longer bear it. i say please, pretend this isn't a failure. pretend we know what i'm waiting for. tell me it will be worth it. tell me it will be worth the aborted starts, the broken promises, the lapses of faith.
still, my flesh carries these 'little setbacks' like pails of water, graceful, without spilling a drop. nothing deeper than disappointment. ages me but doesn't condem me. i refuse to feel shamed.
it won't get in; i won't let it. living the life i do, i have more no room, not inside of me, for anything that refuses to be profound.
as always, i turn to moments. oh, my moments. collect them and spread them beneath my fingertips, marveling at their intensity. let them pass without regret. that's my lesson-- the one i couldn't see until i reached it's answer. my satyagraha. some get more, but i get everything i ask for-- the catch is that i can't keep it. it used to tear me up; like an empty promise. but it's neither. not a promise and never empty, never. it's becoming easier to accept this.
it's getting better. |
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