january 2009

to reach you, or anyone,

the only way i know how to reach you, or anyone,
is through music. I poke songs across thresholds my feet fear to trespass
and wait with twiddling thumbs and drumming feet trying not to guess what you think,
as though i were the one who labored to give birth to the sounds you are now dissecting through your stereos.

every Play button pressed is acquiescence, is acceptance of my tentative gifts,
but only half of you will do more than hear what i am trying to say.
those who listen will understand perhaps a fourth,
but they’ll pretend to know when my mouth shapes the notes like i devour diapasons with each inhalation (and i do).

when my back is turned you’ll politely (gently, gently) push these sonic pieces of myself beneath the door
like you’re ashamed to shove them in my chest.

(and somewhere on the other side of the universe there are empty ears aching for the transonic sustenance you refuse)


walking like a one-man army

your masochism  is not too much for me in the way you think/your masochism is not too much for me/your masochism is not/your masochism/your

i wish you’d reach out to me,

i can hold you together/ican hold you/i can hold/i can/i

but i know too well. you would extend your hand,
but not without bloodstains,
and not with

i can do this/i can do anything

blade in palm.                            you would not be

repententdesperatetakemesavemefrommyself, you would only blame me
for taking it myself. “saving” you.

your/your masochism/your masochism is not too much for me/your masochism is not too much for me in the way you think

i can/icansaveyou/icandoanything/hold o u t your            hand

i wish you would just
close your eyes
take my hand
& jump;

i wish the blades would sink to the floor of the ocean
for future divers to discover and decipher (and destroy)
& you
and you
and i
and we,

we might be okay
you might be okay

i just/i just want/ i need/ you/ineedyou                                        to be okay


my arm looks like landscape,

i will kiss your scars

that is to say,

on some rain-drenched afternoon when gray becomes the verdict and all the world is holding its ears (but why should we ignore the cries of the sky when we beleaguer it so, i wonder)
i will gather to myself your wrist, your ankle, your thigh
lean over your stomach, or
press my fingers up your back and marvel momentarily at the cream/cocoa of your skin before my nails pick up tracks like needles can’t make and i travel the storylines you’ve spun,
press flushed flesh and furious wounds and tissue and the ghosts of memory

and i will lean over and touch my lips so lightly to the sutures and the imprints and the infections
i will taste old blood and new pain and fresh tears and empathy, i will
kiss your scars and tell you that you’re beautiful because of them

and i will mean it

these little things

at night when crescent moons find themselves reflected in the nails with which you clutch your face, attempting again to make it perfect

(and failing,
but only because it was never flawed)

i will steal (because taking by force is the only way in times like these) into your bedroom

i will cross paths with the moon for a moment and believe that i am god (perhaps)

i will crawl into your bed like an incestuous father to cleave myself unto your side, but i will not touch you wrongly;
i will wrap my arms around the shape of you and squeeze, tightly,
until all the pieces of you fuse together again and you know in your sleep as i whisper near the delicate shell of your ear that i find you