Tarame (mere mortal)

Tarame (mere mortal)

Tarame was by all acounts a mere mortal

no faerie or shapeshifter or vampire or god

no urge to throw on a cape and cowl

and toss himself around like Batman

instead he carved beneath a magnifying glass

tiny sculptures of frail people from matchsticks

and set them afoot in gardens he tended himself

along the window sills of the house where he lived

so between him and the world (and possible Naraka)

grew garden parties where his creation watched the sea

and counted the days by sunrise sunset and the tide

because mere mortals need make believe to believe

the constant narration of things unsaid

the constant narration of things unsaid

(a)

her voice puts me out of my misery

not like a bullet

but like a kiss

slow and warm and offered

with hands on backs

to pull each other closer

(b)

i have stared at this poem title for days

having fallen in love with the words

and what it might be and then realized

that is us there in the loving and hoping

what it might be sprouting from what is

and then i am writing the poem that should be

the constant narration of things unsaid

is the title of my brain or the way it runs

incessantly and always always back to you

(c)

it is not the always talking

to myself in my own mind

but the always listening waiting

for that voice that is only you

i have polished bricks into stones

worn my heart like a silver amulet

teaching myself not to fear the bird

singing silently endlessly sweetly

so i can walk to the rhythm of the story

that moves me and makes me whole

(d)

most men live lives on legends

bacchanalian adventures of gods

imagined and rendered to weave truth

out of tales dancing on the head of a pen

but not me

i have my memories of you and us

things said and done and bound

to my mind like angel’s footprints

across the permanent beach of my heart

reading Foucault while making spaghetti

reading Foucault while making spaghetti

i stand beside the stove

reading from The Foucault Reader

and glance into the pot boiling

the spaghetti dancing tendrils

like some sea creature against the current

and i think of you

although that isn’t true

every time i say it

any time i say it

i think of how you have come to be

a mirror for me to see the me

who failed you like a historical marker

and i pull up recollections

recreations of me kissing you:

that’s true but with a revision

recreations of you kissing me

this story of my past unhinged

and clapping against the wall

Foucault’s bespectacled cover photograph

is not Foucault anymore than his words

as you in my memory are no longer you

and i am not the lines and stanzas here

or the person who failed in loving you

and is left only with the history of us

i am he trapped here in the octopus arms

of wishing you’d return to me in these ashes

blossoming like pinot noir grapes for wine

trap door (diamonds, fire, and honey)

trap door (diamonds, fire, and honey)

INEZ: Ah, that’s the way it works, is it? Torture by separation.

No Exit, Jean Paul Sartre

we found the trap door alluring

like rose-cut diamonds

the red glow of a stove’s eye

honey drizzled across your stomach

until we discovered no exit exists

from this world to sanctuary

there is no other side or escape

no woman sawed in half or disappeared

but i am resolute in my wish to conjure

something from the space

where you no longer stand

the silence in the place of your voice

so let’s slip out of these clothes

and run into the sunshine

no longer fools for doors

but punch drunk and aroused

by diamonds, fire, and honey

tethered (this inertia of love)

tethered (this inertia of love)

Centripetal force is the force by which bodies are drawn from all sides,

are impelled, or in any way tend, toward some point as to a center.

—Isaac Newton

I like the way your sparkling earrings lay,
Against your skin, it's so brown.
And I wanna sleep with you in the desert tonight
With a billion stars all around.

“Peaceful Easy Feeling,” Eagles, Eagles

when he fell in love

the last time

the only time

he wrote his novel

about lovers

meant for each other

a life of joy and peace

facetoface

handinhand

and nobody cared

no one read

or turned past page one

demanding pain and tragedy

lovers parted

torn apart by fate

•

and of course she left

him alone

with a boring novel

him tethered always

to the angle

of her ankle and foot

that came to him

in weighted dreams

spinning him nightly

like a moon full

his centripetal fate

an orbit decaying

from the pull of gravity

against centrifugal forces

this inertia of love

•

artists and scientists

bend against

the pull of love

like children lost

in rhyme

strings in their fingers

wishing to catch

and cradle

the one other

who lies beneath

starlit nights

only for this lover

novels and theories

pale against

skin drawn to skin

precipice (falling & the fallen)

precipice (falling & the fallen)

"Everyone is a terrorist. Everyone carries a gun in his heart. . . .

For want of a rationale, or courage, we are all assassins."

A Very Private Gentleman, Martin Booth

a man left hanging is not a hanged man

even a fallen man is not falling

when the rope holds him there

swinging against the act of killing

but she did not kill him this time

& failed to destroy what she wanted

to end like nightmares she dreamed

it proved impossible to defy physics

to simply ask a moon to stop orbiting

to will an apple not to drop to the earth

he had been stabbed cut loose & ambushed

but despite the assault his heart was resolute

& ached to toe a ledge just for the peace of it

this hanging-never-turned-to-hanged became

instead a myth weaved from the yarn of riddle:

he wanted only & always her who wanted him

this is the truth of poetry

that stains her lips&tongue

like blackberries&raspberries

& the nectar of her breathkiss

filled his lungs heart & mind

against the creaking branch above

surrender (when they come for me)

surrender (when they come for me)

And the more I thought about it, the more I dug out my memory things I had overlooked or forgotten. I realized then that a man who had lived only one day could easily live for a hundred years in prison. He would have enough memories to keep him from being bored. In a way, it was an advantage.

Mersault, The Stanger, Albert Camus

[death]

when they come for me

i will not put up a fight

as they rush me from behind

pinning me down to earth

underneath the weight of a knee

bloodied mouth and handcuffed

my hopelessness will seem brave

my solitude will cloak me like armor

i am a warrior monk celibate and monogamous

as i have surrendered my sword to prayer

burying little scrolls of you in my lungs

tattooing haiku of you beneath my tongue

each heart beat a confession of supplication

eyes blinking Morse code meditations

for a man cast aside faith is a silent weapon

against the undertow calling like Sirens

gods and mortals alike are offended and angry

because bones can break but i cannot

captured and sentenced to life in prison

as if that changes anything

as if that changes anything

•

[resurrection]

whispering to myself no longer praying

the secrets of a dead man walking

if it were you slipping up behind me

your hand on my shoulder to turn me around

your hand taking mine as we face to face

look at all that has come before to this place

that could be the end to this crusade

a façade of all that we have failed to share

i am weary of being a solitary soldier

whose only grace is recollection and belief

and that is the truth behind the legend

of my falling under the weight of their assault

delicate (rice paper)

delicate (rice paper)

her skin was as delicate

as rice paper

as rare

as kindness sustained

(anyone could be kind

or string acts of kindness

one after the other

to appear kind

but sustained kindness

offered beyond thought

was rare and beautiful)

and that skin

pale and sun-denied in winter

toasted brown in summer heat

(he would learn in the days to come)

made every shape curve and gesture

of her nearly unbearable and indelible

and he fell in love with her

watching her unaware of him

before she knew anyone watched

before she could imagine being watched

or loved

like a haiku carefully feathered

black ink etched across rice paper

rolled and tied with a green ribbon

later much later

when she sat cross-legged and barefoot

the soft white arch of her upturned foot

assured him of the promise of kindness

and nothing as delicate as that could match

the words he tried to lift from his lungs

that came out as only humming

and then she smiled kindly without thinking

28 days (this metamorphosis of words)

28 days (this metamorphosis of words)

Father Benedetto: [speaking to Jack] You cannot deny the existence of hell.

You live in it. It is a place without love.

The American

yes we had begun again

rebuilding and sculpting

our subterranean world

our lives at the margins

and anyone would admit

that this fragile Shangri-La

this sanctuary spawned softly

from the blood of imagination

could not stand for long

like sandcastles washed away

by the insistent rising tide

chanting this can never be

so how can i remain bound

buried under two surgical emails

crafted 28 days apart cycling

from blissful hope to stripped anger?

so how can i face this metamorphosis

of words like scalpels and sutures

casting me precious in your heart

and then bull shit on your tongue?

when the steel of me lies in bone

surrounded by the fragility called

skin blood flesh muscles and sinew

that burns and bruises under blows

aiming past this cartoon rib cage

expanding and contracting always you

and framing this beating heart aching

singing holding believing nonetheless

“but” means you don’t (sport fishing)

“but” means you don’t (sport fishing)

There's no one above me to stain my fierce hands.
No you don’t love me, don't say that you do because you can't.

“Woodcut,” Jenny Owen Youngs

“i love you but. . .” means

you do not love me

as i loved you and love you

i never knew that you

were into sport fishing

casting a line and hooking me

only to release me once reeled in

but my love is not rust

easily polished back to steel

shiny as if the water had never

turned the silver to amber brown

the hook is deep and i am a fool

no one can erase you buried in me

and i am not easily cast aside

as if nothing happened or mattered

“i love you but. . .” digs

deeper than any hook

and tugs at the edges of me

always

we have lain

we have lain

we have lain

three soft nights

naked as spoons

beneath warming sheets

together—

we two gather

those soft nights

like honeysuckles

picked and sucked

together—

we gather moments

like leaves pressed

against our skulls

until they bury there

together—

we two separated

in the flesh

of one mind

honeysuckle sweet

together—

            tear aside the sheet

            and find us there

            wrapped in each other
            lovers mindful lovers

people do this (masks)

people do this (masks)

people do this

stealing a life to the side

whittling carving sanding and polishing

a masking or unmasking

these statue-lives created

for living breathing fearlessly

will you love me

behind the mask i’ve fashioned

like a dream of beauty and confidence?

will you love me

exposed sincere and honest

the me of me laid bare and open?

yes, people do this

these mannequins of risk

we strip of common clothing

and place about the room

and hope no one will notice

or pull back their eyes and hands in disgust

acetylene (2003)

acetylene

“acetylene”

is a beautiful word—

it makes me think of fire

like warm and soft

when i  imagine you—

whispering in my ear

your name, your laugh,

the curve along your neck—

they make me think “desire”

acetylene,

i wait to strike the match—

if only you were here

half-life

half-life

once upon a time:

her love for him

was as clear and calm

as a glass of water

the echo of time

was another story—

a shattering and a quake

the half-life of her love

for him was forgetting

things happened, of course—

or things were done

with no scar of intent

but things done cut

as deep as things intended—

bleeding out all the life

the half-life of his love

for her was remembering

then things were said—

spoken and written and implied—

like uranium hidden in a shoe

after the end that lingered—

silent and radioactive—

in the bones of his hope

the half-life of suffering and loss

is always and never

he wore his face then—

the one they all wanted to see—

like a lead apron

though his bones glow

in the darkness of his belief

regardless and forever

as he told her

as he told her

eminence grise

eminence grise

she needed both

and on top of that—everything

and running through it all

like a thread—nothing

it was the thing of her

a part of the bones of her

some people called it by name

but she knew it to be wordless

now:

if she took a razor blade

and maybe a thousand years

she could gently remove that gray thread

from the skeleton of her Self

underneath she wondered silently

if removing nothing was removing anything

but such surgeries done carefully

leave someone else on the other side

someone who uses words

and needs something

like leaves moving beyond the window

to believe that the wind is blowing

things built & things uncovered

things built & things uncovered

these wrinkles of sky & ice

are where they always seem to meet—

at least these were the words

that came to him unbidden

(as if the Universe had spoken)

then he saw her coming toward him—

but it wasn’t her—of course—

a shape recalling her to him—

flinging open the doors to her—

these rooms that held all of her

that lived in his mind—like bone—

things built—he knew—can never stand

against things uncovered—

things in his bones—

hidden like yellow folded into blue for green

held like yellow folded into red for orange

he used nails—no tape or glue—

but things hammered never lasted—

pieces and parts rebuilt into that—

this was his thing—he imagined—

hiding his shovel and always always looking

for the right place to dig—the right place—

and then he realized it all so clearly—

if he ever slipped and fell—hers

was the hand he would most like to be offered—

endemic (this moment called you)

endemic (this moment called you)

as long as your feet

move across the curve

of this spinning planet

and your lungs expand

with the sweet salt air

worshipping the rising tide

this moment called you

is etched indelible and deep

in the bone and marrow of me

and courses warm and faithful

through every sacred cell

that builds flesh sinew and muscle

i have tried to find where you

begin and i rest kneeling alien

turning me against me in prayer

peeled and cast aside like rind

from an orange desired only

for the juice and pulp of this fruit

the math of us (stages of grief)

the math of us (stages of grief)

Two hands clap and there is a sound. What is the sound of one hand?

—Hakuin Ekaku

eager sprites stole these flints

chiseled into pomes to sing and dance

with tambourines, banjos, and castanets

weaving through the forests

beyond the sight and ears

of humans dull and distracted

(1)

me plus you equals too much for you

spent and hardened like a diamond

marionette unstuffed and clipped free

us minus you equals a tongue silenced and tasteless

eyes blinded and crossed

fingertips scalded by your lips

i cannot hear myself think inside

the din of this empty room

i find myself circling stores at the mall looking

for a perfume counter and golden bottles of Chanel

i can barely carry these recollections

that have propagated against my skull

minus equals multiplication

(2)

negative space

i am not an artist

although i created this

the absence where you are not

driven to emptiness and gone

my paint-by-numbers disaster

razing Cain against the possibility of us

and no matter how i figure against this

it simply does not add up

(3)

we watched Bubba Ho-Tep

because you had watched it alone

together the watching was not adding me

us there together watching was exponential

you lay with your head in my lap

tired from a day of work

and for just a moment your hand

found my knee and rubbed the cap gently

and this comes rushing back to me

day after day after day after day

the memory piling one on the same

each time recalled and re-lived

wide-eyed and heavy i stare at each day

looking for something to remember

something i can count on

(4)

was it lies

the hiding

the masks

and dodging

that killed us

that killed it

for you at last

pent up inside?

or was the lie

the hidden

the masking

and dodging

that we (i trusted)

that it (i believed)

was never there

at all for you?

and now this awful

question builds inside

me cast aside remainder

outlier parenthetical

embarrassed doubting

fearing your eyes

and answers hidden

like papier-mâché

(5)

i scroll through pictures of you

and realize you are never looking

at me

someone else behind the camera

your eyes turned down or looking away

or pictures from you

there behind the camera

this beach where you live

with footprints and a gray-blue ocean

(6)

i never calculated on this

you i did not anticipate

you i did not recognize

peace and happiness could not blossom

under the shadow of my burdensome love

addition by subtraction

a formula i cannot handle

fingers stiff against such cross tabulations

(7)

algebra

a house of stone

with marble countertops

and granite tile

rock gardens shaped like talismans

to conjure faeries heavy as bricks

crunching like gravel as you drive away

(8)

infinity

my lips pressed inhaling

against the inside of your wrist

your pulse there

metronome of my heart

(9)

i am now calculating

how to trace this paradox

drawing thick black lines

around the outer edge

contradictions added together

the sum of us in negative silhouette

(0)

geometry

solving proofs

of marriage soulmates

and star-crossed lovers

nothing

nil

naught

nada

nata

the irony of trying to express nothing

the space where that who once was is no longer

a word there to say she can no longer

the goodbye she never uttered

like feeling the rain in the air

after the storm has passed

zero

this ring around the finger gone

0

•

these human tales

become faerie songs

because my hubris

is a wicked thing

among the disasters i am

the common denominator

trust me

i have done the math

of anne sexton—and my lover (periwinkle & lavender)

of anne sexton—and my lover (periwinkle & lavender)

may i kiss the back

of your knee

trailing up up

along the inside

of your thigh

like an anne sexton poem?

may i take your foot

in my hand

kissing the softest part

there

though you complain

that your legs

are not long and brown

(sorry, anne, sorry)

hamlet tells ophelia—

that’s a fair thought

to lie between maid’s legs—

and i suppose

that’s true

though “fair” can mean

many things

like “delicate,” “amber,” and “perfect”

and i believe he was not talking

about “thought”

no—

it was “to lie,”

it was “between,”

it was “legs”

and you sent me her poem

in your handwriting

on a small white card

periwinkle

            sprung from a woman’s eye

lavender

            bloomed from your fingernail

her words

in your hand

have carved themselves

inside my chest

scars sprouting like roots

and speaking like Braille

to a dying woman

searching for her child

gone blind from exhaustion

crawling on her hands and knees

in her withering hysteria—

yes—they will carry me in

on a wooden bench

then everything—everything

will blossom across your cheeks

like a bouquet of tears

because no one will speak

no one will speak

so every hand

can hear

the words

like periwinkle & lavender