bringing up or down
on no altimeter
sharp sun light splits my world like a comic book mask, one side bright, the
other side black, forcing me to choose what side I wish to reside in, when I
can’t have both, scalding light, illuminating the path along this River but casts
huge places into deep dark, no moderation here, not even the sore face of the
water where the glints of sunlight is most intense, this path bringing me to
the edge again, to the places full of memory, scorched out of my brain from too
much glare, I follow along a trail I took in less brittle days, my feet knowing where
I've been even if I can no longer see it and must rely on my intuition to keep
going and my memory of days when things were less divided. and those brief
glimpses of Joy I recall and treasure, even if I can no longer see them
My shoes splash through mud left from a brief night time rain, sunlight
glistening in each puddle as morning comes, and I rush off to places I'd rather
not be, the endless ritual of routine that lacks meaning merely aids in
survival, not of the fittest, just those who learn to comply, while inside as
always, another shadow lurks, one that aches to break free too, violate
something or someone, to find joy in being bad, the excess of who I am spilling
out of me from every pore, the need to fill up all those holes and still have
something left to do so again, the splash of my feet over muddy landscape, my
shape perverted in the reflections of puddles disturbed by my passing,
reflection of my real and distorted me, I keep locked up
She says she doesn't hate all men, just some, then looks at me, we both
carrying the baggage of love that might never have been love, just the shadow
moving across our eyes, unsubstantial, mistaken shape we can maybe see for what
it is, dare we step out of this cave to see what real love looks like in the
light of day, or will we wilt under its scalding pressures as it unveils us,
reveals the illusion we foolishly mistook as real, do we prefer the darkness,
this Shadow, knowing it for what it is, yet preferring it to what otherwise
brings discomfort, to face reality, to bear the scolding light, we must shed
what we assumed, does her hatred to some men mean she already stepped out into
the brightness of a light I cannot bear to see, as I remain here, deluded
Not all flowers come with thorns, not all draw blood if gripped too tightly,
this though, among so many other mental rumblings, coming into my head as I
wake from bed, stiff, excited, yet warmed by the warm air spring brings, the
new season firmly rooted after more than a month of dismal rain, pain bringing
with it pleasure, if we endure enough, the dead roses from the dead of winter,
replaced in part with other pleasures, other flowers, other of hearts, flowers
with which we might never part, I think, as ease from sleep into the welcome
warmer world, sunlight with its ever cheerful mood and always bright outlook,
streaming through the window as I wake, partake the days refreshment, the
rituals of morning giving away to those of the afternoon, the scent of New
birth sweet and in part yet dark too, as if the turf out of which spring
springs, no thorns to prick our fingers on yet just not pure joy
Heavy rain falls on my Sunday laundry ritual like a deluge, inside and out, a
deep chill rising up from my bones and I can't get warm from, needing to rub
against somebody to generate fire, the way boy scouts do with twigs, though you
can't get fire from wet wood or old matches, and so I huddle in this doorway
and wait for the storm to pass, the flick of drops pecking at the rim of my hat,
at my face, at my eyes, smearing the world, confusing me with images of what is
or what I want to be, the rain against me, no umbrella or memory can protect me
from, needing a body to rub against, to Kindle a fire I know his long dead,
stir up with hope of heat, enduring the rain and the pain of memory long gone
Paradise is not all it's cracked up to be, love making in the afternoon, cuddles at night
The in and out ritual that means more than in the front door,
the dark of night alone, the wish for arms and lips and hips, missing when
needed most, the locked door, the people the fright of who might knock at night
when all others have fled to other homes, other arms, other lips and hips,
sometimes Paradise is a vacuum, the silence that resides when all the voices cease,
the peace we seek when we need more than the rant and rave of imagined love.
sometimes Paradise is being free of the bonds, the promises, the deception,
sometimes Paradise is being alone
I still kick myself for bringing card and candy to that bar
-- that night when she took pity on me for my birthday but wanted to fuck the
bartender instead of me, or perhaps an orgy with the German couple, when it was
still odd man out, four is company, five is not allowed, that dark night in May
when I got drunk on my own hormones instead of bottles of wine
I still kick myself
for not seeing it in advance, how unwelcome I was, how I ought not to have gone,
let alone left early, abandoning her, even though she had already abandoned me
this idea we can fix things that are too broken to fix, no
amount of magic able to bring the magic back
that night in May I can never forget but also will always
regret. wishing I had seen it all coming
What exactly do I remember best, the bits of fragrance, the softness of flesh, the jumble of thoughts rolling around in my head, drunk before the first sip of wine, being inebriated by being so close, I could reach out and touch, grab what it is I wanted, and yet resisted.
what exactly do I
recall, if anything at all, the staggering moments when she could reach out in
touch me, to do whatever she liked, as if I am a trained poodle or one of those
mob dat ragtop pups, women like her stick in their purses and let out for show,
maybe that's exactly what I wanted all along, to cling to her heels at the end
of a leash, to sit up, sit down, bark, roll over, each command filled with
ever-present promise of reward
What I really wanted that night outside the bar -- when we
broke from our routine on the stools inside for her to get a smoke outside --
was to push her hard against the wall, her arms splayed, my mouth pressed
against hers, my body throbbing to get at hers, to press in, undress her there
and then, in the dark so I could get at her, the ache do acute, I still feel it
all these years later, asking myself why
I didn't do it, why I settled later for a kiss on the ride home, to take her
then and there, to feel my hardness against her softness, to deposit in her,
all the flow of lava pent up inside me, then, now, always -- that precious moment gone
I wake to pre-dawn and wait like a countdown to a sunrise
that may never come, only the gradual lightening of clouds and the usual false
promise of rain, we having finally pushed out of the unbearable heat of Summer
and into the uncertainty of fall. no leaves turning yet, just the dulling of
green, as if the trees have ceased hoping, as I have, hope for what-- relief, reprieve, forgiveness or perhaps, the
need to feel numb, no Harry Potter magic, no clicking of Dorothy heals, just
the vague notion of a quiet space, after the brutal threats of Summer have
ceased, winding down to eventual numbness, in which I feel neither pleasure or
pain ,and no longer wake to the fear of being undone, sometimes this is all we
can hope for this sense of artificial peace