[some time i will (might) edit and revise this. for now this is how my god-brain bore it.]
[this was not dated, so i don’t know from whence it came exactly, probably the last couple few years?]
central to love
at the deep inside of it
is the space it creates within us
and we know love the clearest
when we are alone in that space
alone is where love is the loudest
loud as your heart
if you were a baby curled up next to it
swimming in the waters
of the world before you were born
i know you want me.
but do you love me?
what does it mean to love someone?
we seek it from the beginning of memory.
the older we progress
the further we are from knowing what that is.
don’t breathe too hard
you’ll fog up the glass.
children, always standing too close.
there are days that pass like pages
slowly folding over and on top of you, like a blanket that lets you remember but not look back
i have so many ideas for you.
we could put them all in a basket.
the white blankness of january, lets you remember but not look back
somewhere in the long beat of that annual rhythm is my depression wanting to go back underneath the blackness of a new moon summer night
humid safety like a uterus, hot, pulsing, maternal yet erotic wtf
it’s that week with too many deadlines, too little sleep and too much drinking
confluence of crazy to put our finger on that magic button of creation.
like a wormhole
like an episode
like a moment of centrality and dislocation of your universes all at once.
it is the last sentence
and you have been holding the corner of this page in anticipation
wanting it to last wanting it to be over in order to see what is next not wanting to know wanting to hold on
cause this day will pass
and it will let you remember but it will not let you look back.
after a poem hurls out of me
i say thank you.
after a poem evocatively makes love to me and let’s me share it with the world one fucking line at a time
i say thank you.
it’s always fucking time to go somewhere. my thoughts are nothing but roadkill strewn all over the city, flying out the tailpipe of my god damn car.
i realize that i had this idea that love got easier as you got older
that it wouldnt be so confusing, so painful.
that losing a lover wouldnt feel like all the noise had folded inside you and you could hear nothing
but it’s not true
love is always a fucking hassle. a worthy hassle, but still .such a monster.
analogies invite criticism and argument.
metaphors are lullabies. it sings to you or it doesn’t, but you’re much less tempted to argue with it.
some days after a particularly bankrupting transaction
you drink the drink to put out the fire
long after the fire is over
the drink is to bury the ashes
the drink is to cover the noise
the drink is to clean the wound
the drink is to placate the gods
the drink is to placate the drink
the drink is all there is.
all these men looking for angels.
all these women looking for poets.
is one the other
so hard to tell in the night
playing dead in the dark
if the mind has a repeat button
i have it.