july 2008

what of traveling.throwaways

over London,
i am sleeping in dreams of soft paper
scrawled with messages of pissed off and thoughtful;
the moon in my window is shy of my eyesight.
he trembles beside the windowpane,
awaiting permission to enter–
a vampire the way i like vampires least: asking for things,
apologizing for things.

over Rotterdam,
i am sleeping in dreams of wet paper
stained with remnants of i hate you for five minutes
and five coffees attempting to prod the writer awake;
they failed, but his pages took flight on the wind
and now they’ll scent the air with their poignance,
and make it metallic.

over here,
under roofs unsteady, an attic I’ve never seen
and only remember by the ladder in the driveway-
i am sleeping in dreams of torn paper strewn across carpet
long scarred by candle wax,
milk
tea,
paint–
various evidences of insomniac artistry.

what stories remain from these pages,
what histories reside,

i may never know;

but i will wake restless and fill several more
with my ponderings thereof

when i touch you

when i touch you
i am hoping your system has a severe case of mistaken identity:
your heart mistakes itself perhaps for winged things, like hummingbirds,
your body for tender leaves in autumn breezes

when i kiss you
i am hoping breathing becomes
almost the last thing that you think about.

when i hold you,
i am hoping perhaps you feel an infant,
desirous of clinging tenaciously to me: arms, legs, chest, waist
and at once an adult,
longing for more.

when we make love/fuck/have sex
i am hoping physical and emotional become so synonymous
as to negate any difference between them.

i love the way that your eyes shine,
in hues of silver against which the moon and ocean conspire in jealousy.

i love the way that your lips depreciate the value
of things like satin and rose petals, or even velvet bindings
(and defibrillators, when they meet with my own);

i love the way your hands are large and strange and beautiful.

when i hold them,
i am hoping you pretend i’m a violin,
a piano
or the next page in your sketchbook: trace me to life.
i dare you.

more than anything, though,
when i am with you

i am hoping our thoughts run similar courses.

old piano, french vanilla and feathers

inside this place you have taken me to
it is quiet but for the sound of rain, and a piano;
your touch is light,
your hand uncertainly sure,
your lips and tongue starved for skin cells and sighing.

our kisses never seem to end,
still too brief to remember–
until the next time that we lose maintenance of passion
and answer the craving to taste each other’s words.

when you listen to music,
i hope you taste me in the words you sing.

when you dance,
i want to be the air around you– the music inside of you,
the rush in your veins;
but i wish to be the place
you fade into as you move, and envelop you.

inside this place you have taken me into,
you taste like discovery;
and i am greedy with dipping my tongue.

resignation

he could have been prince in another universe, they said–
but he was only himself in this one,

and it pains me, wounds me
to think of a crown never worn.

he should have been born years ago, they said;
childhood, in this age, was not his place.

and it pains me
it wounds me to think of adages
which never passed from his mind to his lips
(and oh, such lips)

he is older than his time, and destined in consequence:
to walk next to and never beside,
to be near but not quite with,
to touch, not always to feel;

what he is, they said,
what he could be, what he will become–
this world cannot handle such things.

and so instead he wanders,
in search of meanings that long ago
escaped the atmosphere of this place we call home (the earth mother,
her fingers cannot grasp even the threads of him),
in search of purpose,
in search of being–

he should not be here, they said.
he should not be here. he belongs in higher places
not governed by transparent sentience and sadism.

and it pains me/it wounds me to think
that i agree,

wholeheartedly

down halls and in saviors

touch broken things,
and severed wings,
your ashes on the floor

this darkened hall,
this darkened room,
i cannot see you soar.

are you so far, wan lover,
and have you gone so cold?

have all your ashes frozen
and your youth become so old?

’tis better to have love and lost,
they say, than not all;

but can you hold on tightly
to a world abruptly small,

when the memory of silk is so tender now
that you sleep on hardened ground?
where are the birds which sang to you
in such resplendent sound?
where is the glow that once surrounded
your fated hallowed ground?

and here i am, the excavator,
archaeologist, among these ruins
sent by timing and a twist of luck
to sift through what you left behind.

i found here a baby bird, starved and waiting;

instead of teaching it to fly, he gave me wings,

and now with the breeze you left
i hope to set him aloft again

soldier X

i might have cut my hand somewhere back there,
for there are blood tracks on the walls
and i’m quite sure we weren’t at play these past weeks,
but with you i can never be too sure;

the gashes between my ribs: were they there when this started,
or did i put them there myself?

it’s not so easy to wage a war against someone who’s always with you,
and equally hard to be a soldier in a battle you know nothing about.

betimes, we travel on uncharted territories,
your footing unsure as i lead you along through ravaged fields of feeling,
and smoking cinderblock memories–
i’m sure you smell the singe upon my skin
but you are too polite, too loving, to mention the stench.

or perhaps you’re hoping,
if i stop beside the tide pools somewhere
along the scarred shore of the ocean i am become,
if i lean over far enough–
you might be able to wash me clean.