People say
"I give up"
like it was a
sudden decision
made consciously.
[Some final
opting-out]
Which is charming,
in the way that naivety
always is.
But I will tell you a secret,
hidden down in the dirty ink;
in the pitched places inside ourselves
we dare not look:
Giving up is
something you do quietly
little by little...
until there is nothing left
to concede...
and the emptiness
becomes too great
to bear.
I laugh a little,
when people speak of muses.
When they speak of inspiration
like a friend
or a lover.
Some soft,
fickle thing
that whispers out to us.
Inspiration is like lightning.
Down through the air
and up through your feet,
to collide halfway,
where your spine meets your skull.
Inspiration is the cold hammer
of the stars
coming to rest
against your dissonance;
without anything resembling compassion.
I am
disaffected
from my own culture
my own society
my own species.
Because we have built a world
not worth remembering.
A world with more suffering
than any other thing
combined.
Disaffected
because I cannot stomach
the concept
of wealth
and the willingness
we have all shown
to play a part
in our own oppression.
Disaffected because
my conscience
tells me there is a war
to be fought,
out there on the streets.
But there's not people
with enough courage
to stand in line
because they can't find
a good enough reason
to put themelves at risks
for their fellow
brothers and sisters.
Sometimes I wonder
if it's my fight
[anymore]
But I don't blame them
Humans, I mean.
I don't blame you
[or anyone]
for being the way you are.
Because if I learned
anything [of humans]
it's that stupidity
is far more common
than malice.
They [you]
just don't know
any better.
And hell
neither do I
[some days]
But I will play no part
in what this species
has wrought.
I will do good things
and be better
than I was made.
So I say this:
I may be human
but I stand apart
disaffected.
As the fall turns to winter,
I find myself thinking
that wounds do heal.
But sometimes
in the quiet of the library
[where we met]
I hear her tinkling laughter
and I think of her.
Some things were not meant to be
and I've learned
to accept that truth
because I refuse to miss
what I've never known.
There is enough to miss
in what I have known.
I learned from him
how to mimic bravado
[convincingly]
and sometimes I think
[sarcastically]
that I should thank him.
I hide behind this mask:
the fool
the court jester
the poisoned heart of Juliet
because that's how it has to be.
But sometimes the mask slips,
when the rain falls
and the sky turns to the same shade of grey
as his favorite scarf
and I wish I never
ran into that library
[where we met].
I once wrote a love poem
for a short,
bubbly girl
with white hair.
Her name was Theresa.
I can’t remember…
[I think]
it was 8th grade.
I never showed it to her.
A couple of months later
she broke up with me
and started having sex
[with one of her friends].
At least she had the decency
to ditch me first.
No pretense -
I respect that.
I never got over it.
[not back then]
I cared about her;
at least as much
a stupid teenager can care
about anyone.
I spent hours
just talking to her.
Damp grass and stars.
Fingertips.
She left me because I was patient.
It did not occur to me
[at the time]
how important that was…
but I think
that was when I started to get bitter.
One of the first
in a very long series
of little things
that life would take from me
until I was different.
One day I decided to get it back:
through clenched teeth
and shallow breaths.
Through glistening skin
and the space between hips.
I swore I’d get it all back.
I think about cupcakes;
vague artistic notions in whipped sugar
that get eaten by society
in the sense that they are consumed
and forgotten
I think about money
and how most have none and claim to want none
but need more than they have
no matter how much they obtain
I think about how
our sexual dynamic is cultural
rather than personal:
the beliefs and desires of other people
have invaded our bedroom
and instructed us on how to love each other
I think about how this knowledge
and the persistent image of my culture
as spectators around our mattress
causes me to become so uncomfortable
that I am actually incapable
of putting any value on sex
And I get sick
until I remember that
eventually, everyone dies.
Eventually, no one will have to suffer
at the hands of anyone else.
And I think
oh,
how it can’t happen soon enough.
We turn in like term papers:
unenthusiastic and clearly cobbled
together just the night before
- the kind of grudging
sense of duty you pretend to love
because you are expected to.
We turn ourselves out
like orphans or prostitutes
or both:
selling facsimile love
and the better part of ourselves
for a stranger’s concept of home.
We turn ourselves over like a fresh,
filled grave: piling ruin on the memories
to assemble some tawdry image
that resembles roughly the earth
before we tore into it.
We do as we’re told
when we’re told that we must
and split the difference
on expired dreams
that we never bring home
and never come home to us.
When Thomas begs the question
I will say “I knew regret,
but not remorse.”
For you, are the pomegranate:
I divide your ripe flesh
and breathe the richness of your seeds;
with stained fingers I cradle them
- your blood calls me “thief,”
But I am a tourist amidst your bones;
I graze their surfaces like Roman columns
to know their hallowed curves and hollow spaces;
to drink the memory in their scars,
as if it were my own.
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote