hagiography

i write across a long distance.
i hope the words carry.
it's colder, here, than i thought it would be;
there are fewer stars, longer nights.
the journey was long.
i hope you're well,  i hope you don't worry.
i hope your bed is warm at night,
i hope your heart is full.
it's the immediacy, here,
that strikes me hardest;
the ability of danger or hate or lust
to take me by the throat
midafternoon on a thursday.
the tangibility of large thoughts, here;
it is possible to touch racism,
taste sexism, smell intolerance
even after a long, grey thunderstorm.
i hope your days are easy;
i hope your work is fulfilling, i hope
your body never ails.
it's colder, here, than i thought it would be;
but i no longer seek the heat.

in sadness, anger, guilt, shame, disgust, or disease, we reach for something bigger than ourselves in hopes of gaining reason or perspective. always, we have a choice. we can choose to let negativity fester, to let sarcasm seep in around the edges of a growing belief in helplessness or futility, to let the fear of sadness or anger or guilt overpower any other drive, and let that force us into the lapse of judgment and humanity that is selfish self-preservation. or we can choose unshakable faith, unquenchable passion, undrownable hope, impenetrable desire for everything that is good and beautiful and whole. when we feel ourselves being overcome, when we are drowning in circumstance and negation, remember: the future is always a choice, and we can choose love.

the hardest part of ending a relationship isn't letting go:
it's moving forward alone.
instinctively then, i seek companionship, but who i am now--
how i think, how i talk, how i act, how i believe--
is entirely incompatible with dependence, or reliance,
or faithlessness.
i am full of myself, a complete and capable person,
whole and wholly sure that the work i am doing is necessary.
self-work, community work, world work.
loving and being loved by someone is
at once the greatest and the least task imaginable.
it's as well i'm with you, now, who needs so little,
just acquiescence and quiet and beauty.
these i have to spare;
it is effort, it is critical thinking, it is engagement and
drive and passion that i am running short of.
for you i create the illusion of control,
the illusion of youth, the illusion of being
continually in need of rescue;
when you eat these visions, digest these lies,
i am able to maintain my own control of who i am in your eyes.
of course you fell in love.
i'm good at what i do.

the heart unsure, shaky in its rhythms,
keens softly for the reason it used to beat.
muscles alternate between hot, manic spasms
and extreme lethargy, the value of disuse.
the lips grow dry; the eyes grow dull;
on shivering tendons i pivot towards the past.
retrospection is a vise, a gleaming tomb
that seeks and captures and demands:
an explanation is wanted, here,
for the choices i have made.
in my broken body, in my cringing mind,
the words cannot be formed! the thoughts
will not be marshaled, but gallop
in wild herds through the desert of my mouth.
without guidance, without impetus,
the disease progresses past reason.

perched at the kitchen table,
a solid front of caring, gargoyle for
distemper and immediacy,
she is direct and condescension drips.
"tell me, are you just getting by?"
the smirk is well-hidden, covered
in concern and caresses.
"don't you think you could be doing better?
don't you think you should be, could be--"
all the things that i am not:
an avalanche of agrarian simplicity;
sentences which slam into the sky
and spread neurotic, nuclear disease;
a narrative, simplistic, vilified
and thorough in follow-through,
standing on streetcorners holding babies;
the silhouette of femininity
pressed for time, pressed for tension,
pressed against brick walls outside clubs
by men with sweat and oil and scent;
a tide of oceanic schism,
wrenching waves apart for salt and glory.
"don't you think you could be doing better?
don't you think you could be more?"
maybe i will consider being more,
creating canyons greater than myself.

exhaustion trickles like a fountain
up over the shoulders, down in rivulets
across the chest and stomach,
wrapping knees and feet in cold coils.
sleep would be a blessing, a gift,
the resolution of a hard-won path;
but it would also be a lowering of defenses,
an offering of blithe unconsciousness,
and that cannot be borne.

in my imagination you are;
in my heart, you are not.
questions are a shield,
insecurity the sword and i
am an efficient killer.

i grow an ever-longer list
of your suspense and connotation:
weather, rhythm, sex,
the moon and a dozen things
which whine, softly, your name.

desire for ballast
works well until fulfillment,
when the strings are cut,
and the journeyman must go:
wanderer, minstrel, raider.

kneeling in the water,
lapped at by a thousand fish
unseen by two thousand blind eyes,
i view you better in discomfort
and the clarity of predation.

the brain is a stupid sparrow,
hopping blindly from branch to sidewalk
in search of molded crumbs.
flighty, nervous, breakable,
the little yellow beak probes each crevice
for nuggets of filth,
pulls strands from fetid shores,
builds a house from brittle sticks.
the nests as light as the bones
(hollow and fragile),
bare protection from predatory weather
or the hawks who glide unnoticed
till all at once the synapse fires.
by the time the swooping, fearful shadow
has been realized, it's too late,
and the brain meanders into another metaphor.

no one has looked at me all day.
i feel pale, false,
transparency sinking in around the edges.
am i real? how should i know?
who can i ask?
maybe i am more like a star,
viewed from far, far afield,
who could say whether my light still exists
or was extinguished eons ago
and it is just now reaching your eyes?
maybe i am more like a mirror,
no substance to myself
but a silver backing,
the ability to reflect you back to yourself,
to show you as the world sees you
instead of showing you myself.
no one has looked at me all day.
the sky has been reflecting the oceans;
the oceans have been moved by tides.
i feel fake, calcified,
a fissure in the earth waiting to be widened.

i have been responsible for my own smiles
for years, how should i
pass off that burden to you now?
no matter the intention, no matter the ability,
self-ownership and self-love
are learned at a high cost, cannot be unlearned.
what you offer
is a boon to a struggling spirit,
a blessing to someone willing to give up or give in.
but me, i replaced my spine with iron years ago,
blood for magma, skin for shell,
and there is nothing i can give up now
that would not wreck the whole body of me.

unhappiness so virile it becomes explosive,
a tangible substance clinging to hands and lips
and wiping its greasy presence onto everything i touch.
sadness isn't a cloud above my head,
anger isn't a chemical in my bloodstream;
these things are more divisive, more intrinsic than that,
more internal than external, genetically determined:
sadness in the color of my skin,
a predilection for anger as a disease.
it is only this day's scenario that presses itself
vehemently against my tongue,
predetermining diction, timbre, and tone.

hope, soldered at last to fact,
dissolves indistinguishably.
a dribble down the side of
an ice-cold can in sunshine.
when finally, dissolute and disarmed,
possibility rescues hope--
the bindings to fact must be broken--
only then can hope seem
mature, explicable, reasoned.

coffee for the morning, a cigarette in the afternoon,
wine in the evening and you at night.
love is just another drug we take to feel full.
as with all the others, my need for you
is never quite sated, the desires and wants and lusts
never pause quite long enough for contentment.
my chemical need for you is real,
and maybe strident enough to be confused with love.

i know what you wanna hear.
i know the voice you want it said in--
quiet, needy, acquiescent,
dark with gravel and lust.
i know what words you want,
words that sound like secrets
or admission,
words that let you climb in
and curl up inside my skin.
i know what body language you want,
hips forward, eyes lowered,
bite your lip for conviction's sake.
i know what you wanna hear,
how can you trust me to say it?
you want your girl practiced,
trained, experienced,
but innocent, honest, truthful.
you want your girl tamed?
i tell that lie too.

this whole time my heart
could've been beating in time with the music,
what an idiot i am for not having known.
could have been breathing
with the bass line, could have let
my pulse fade into the drum beat,
could have let the music constrict and contract
all of these muscles for me.
if i had been simple enough, thoughtless enough,
blissfully unaware enough to have accomplished that--
if i had been empty enough--
what a blessing it might have been.
take me back, let me stand beside the speaker,
let me embrace the physicality of the noise
as a body in and of itself.

You are a pinprick, a dust trail,

A mote of heading off for home,

The singularity of brightness in a cold sky

When there is only a single watcher

Within many thousands of lightyears.

You are the decision, the choice,

The process by which all dreams are dreamt

To pick this moment on this night

And this quadrant of the sky

(to know that there is only one watcher)

To be assured that the message

Is not lost, is not stolen, is not overlooked.

You are a pinprick of feeding the hungry,

A rejoinder to the sliding eyes which

Fail entirely to see, or the scrutiny

When the others pause to look:

A single spot of spirituality, crux of charity,

And in your leavings a flash of gold

Marks the moment of demise.

thank you for letting me

leave something of myself in your arms,

for letting me kill something off,

the softest sort of infanticide.

for your granite strength,

for your obsidian reflection that allowed me

the opportunity to stare back at myself:

a quiet kind of suicide,

a superficial display of sadness.

the sadness that I am, that is real,

the authentic despairs which

travel inside my blood and bones

like little red zeppelins, fueled and fast,

that sort of sadness is too huge

to bear alone; so thank you.

for letting me shore up under your shadow,

for the chance to catch my shallow breath.

in amongst the reeds and things,
crouched like a feral cat,
with muddy calves and ankles:
this is how i learned you.
this is how i met you.
mosquito bites on knobby elbows,
big-eyed and foul-mouthed
and determined to fly rather than fight.
in a summer you are a dream,
a wildchild hypnosis,
something foreign and familiar
suckling on field flowers and daydreams.
grown now, dressed up,
hemmed into collars and wool,
you are startlingly beautiful.
in a summer you are a hope,
but these days you are closer to malaise.

when you and i stop communicating,

when words fail us and breath leaves us,

when you and i can touch

but cannot talk--

that's when the world will end.

it's not volcanic, or oceanic, or tectonic,

like all the movies would have us believe;

ascension won't wait

for a natural finale.

when you and i are pressed together,

ego to ego, lips to teeth,

and no breath is exchanged--

that's when the world will end.

Hope seems such a ridiculous thing,
flighty and immature and slavering for brainspace,
for attention when there is none to give;
I am for action, progression,
fire and brimstone, visionary vinegary ire,
but no place for the delicate delusion of hope.
Why hope when you can be a raisin on the sidewalk?
Why hope when you can get hung for Haymarket, why hope
when you can be burdened by firehoses in Selma?
I never was nor will be
one of Luther's lists, to be hung on a doorway,
to be debated and bestir a population.
My way is flanked by iron doors, "all hope abandon"!
Why hope when there is already
enough abandonment of logic, enough Lycean deception,
to destroy what little man hath already wrought?

soft touch to warm skin,
parted lips and curling toes.
where tomorrow takes us, then--
who could say? but tonight,
for tonight... let us make wishes.
fingers clutch and breaths will catch,
heat follows where partner goes.
light touch to quaking skin,
delicious tension, murky lust.
where tonight can take us, then--
we can choose, and tonight,
let us make a wish we can keep.

in a moment of insane honesty,
the public admission of hurt--
waiting for a reaction,
is it acceptable that i am not perfect?--
self-hate sets in soon,
misinterpretation abounds.

when the world ends,

we will all be strange and young.

love, stored up like last year's fireworks,

will then exist only

in a cool, dry, cement environment.

clinical, sterile, precise,

i will tell you words so that you will hear them;

i will touch you so that you will feel me.

when the world ends

there will be sound, there will be smell,

and we will all taste the fury

of fire that spreads on blistering winds.

i will let you believe that i need you back;

i will engage you in codependence.

when the world ends

you will clutch to me, scared simple,

and i will be climbing clifftops,

seeking the thunderhead on the heath:

i will be catapulting off lightning strikes,

without so much as a hem

to cling to.

near to speaking--
perched on the edge of (what is probably
destruction, what could be redemption, what is definitely
discomfort) cogent sentences--
words like a cliff to jump off of,
thoughts like a quarry to delve into--
near to speaking, my heart in its jumble of wants
stops dead, shivering, stalling.

my equilibrium is weighted,
swayed to the side of emotions and desires
that are multifaceted at best,
spiritual starvation at worst.
oh half of me begs the question, wants to be
your helpmeet, your servant, your drawer of wellwater,
your woman in a secret pool who dips
one long limb at a time,
whose skin is sacred and whose words are psalmic.
half of me roils, raging, pulsating,
lurking and seeking that opportunity to pillage;
your trusting heart, your concluded mind
will be barren once i am through.
how could you think i would be less?
why should you imagine i could be more?

it would be a mistake for you
to think that you know me, now.

when pleading won't work,
turn the dial up, let the fire burn.
acidic affections, roiling
like bile in an empty stomach,
are riptides inside my ego.
am i insufficient?
do i not find completeness in myself?
why does the decision to love
become so convoluted once witnessed?

Another sleepless night, just you and I, empty heart.
Another dark sky outside white walls,
another yearning, for someone, for scent, for sex.
This place, where sound and affection are absent,
is notable mostly for its efficient wearing-down
of body, soul, mind, heart.
Who can stay healthy while drunk on tepid water?
Who can stay clean in a polluted swamp?
You are a marshland, my dear,
abundant and sticky with evolutionary sweat.
If I am to cross these swampy streets,
I'll need your hand, your path, your light to follow.

oh i crave the mountains now,
their deep craggy valleys,
the steep inclines, the tree line, pines.
clinging fog, sticky and multiplying,
folding the mountaintops into the sky,
sucking in sightlines
and emitting that sweet, damp smell.
have you ever danced in a cloud?
have you ever breathed pure oxygen?
oh i crave height, distance,
echoing miles and geographic might.
flex for me now, sweet Appalachia,
open your dark coal heart,
and let me find my way home.

till there is evidence on my skin--
teeth marks on my neck,
bruises on my chest,
aches in my joints,
chapped lips--
till there is visual proof, i cannot accept
that you have been here,
that you have agreed to stay awhile.
till your body is imprinted on mine,
till i have tasted iron and chlorine and carbon,
till my skin has so tangible a memory
that there can be no danger of forgetting--
don't leave
don't leave
don't leave

marrow, sick and pink,
sneaks out from my fingertips,
wriggling like worms escaping from puddles.
how could i keep it in,
where it no longer belongs?
the heart, thumping oddly and browning quickly,
cannot exist outside the body for long:
but mine, poor slavish thing,
lies there, prone on the countertop,
for days and weeks and months
watching, waiting, bored.
how should i have kept it at bay?
i turn my whole body loose,
since each organ and each cell and each synapse
were too restless inside me;
there was no peace, there could be no rest
while the blood boiled and
the kidneys pulsed and
the stomach churned and lungs inhaled.
so emptied now i am finally stilled,
quiet and able to sleep.

thesis

in questioning whether or not
the body is a tool
(a service provided for short-term use,
a vehicle rented for the afternoon)
we are forced also
to question whether or not our usage is correct.
(can the hands do this?
can the mouth?)
in deciding, ultimately, that
what we should care about is physical damage
(disease, stagnation, atrophy)
we decide too that
the endeavors of the mind, of the heart,
of the soul, are less important, less integral to self.
let me be clear:
if it makes my skin tingle, i will do it.
if it makes my heart skip, i will do it.
if it makes my voice sing, i will do it.
because whatever it is
that makes me laugh, cry, ache, moan,
shiver, dance, vibrate, curse, emote, breathe,
it is worth losing the esteem
of some random external moralist
to have done it.