a poem on being desired, being desirable

a poem on being desired, being desirable

Harold Crick: Miss Pascal, I've been odd, and I, I know I've been odd, and... I want you.
Ana Pascal: What?
Harold Crick: There, there are many reasons, there are so many influences in my life,
that are telling me, at times, quite literally, that I should come 
here and bring you these, but I'm doing this because I want you.
Ana Pascal: You want me?
Harold Crick: In no uncertain terms.
Harold Crick: Because I want you. 

Stranger than Fiction

somewhere else, at the same moments

your mind floods with her hands

and then her hands on you, all over

and though you and she are not near

you can smell her that is only only her

you can hear her voice clear as oxygen

it spreads her happiness throughout you

there—where ever she is that you are not—

she wants you wanting her to want you

•

being desired, being desirable

washes everything else away

because nothing else matters

being desired, being desirable

makes everything else matter

because desire is everything

•

the last thing he had of her

the very last thing he faced

was a weekend stolen together

when he desired her above all

and when he came against the worst

not being desired, not being desirable

and that was how nothing else mattered

the archeology of happiness (wherefore)

the archeology of happiness (wherefore)

I have of late—but wherefore
I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of
exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my
disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to
me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, 

 the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament,
this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, 

 it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapors.

Hamlet, The Tragedy of Hamlet 2.2.295-303

(a) the archeologists

they knew this all in retrospect of course

the recognition was gradual and then obvious

the day he was no longer funny was a Tuesday

and the morning air was cool before a sunny day

in most ways the day itself was entirely normal

a day like all the others of his life except the loss

the record of the artifacts was all quite compelling

once they began to rebuild the archeology of happiness

(b) the culture

people often fail to remember the good days

once there are bad days to cloud their minds

the day they bought their first pet as a family

the dog was a chocolate lab puppy unlike the others

somehow too big and clumsy but the obvious one

once they came unglued as a family and tattered

recalling days like that one simply slipped away

like the family dog now greyed limping and there

always sleeping or just barely holding up its head

(c) the subject

after the end of funny

after the end of happiness

this is what he thought:

we never danced together

but in my mind that was a happy day

or to be precise

we never danced together

but in my mind that was a happy night

us swaying together holding on

for every everyone to see our embracing

dancing is a celebration of two as one

the way i believed happiness could be

archeologists gather stones and pottery shards

but hopes and dreams are artifacts too

and the record of my mind and longings

often seem more real than these days after

mourning (the arc of my days)

mourning (the arc of my days)

i am frozen

in my mourning

no hope for noon

or thoughts of evening

i cannot fathom

the cloak of night

the arc of my days

stands absent you

a forever mourning

pointless and still

fight (because & the sweetness of golden pears)

fight (because & the sweetness of golden pears)

One Day

“i love you,” “i love you no matter what,” & “i’ll love you forever”

had a nasty sprawling fight

like monkeys fighting in a pear tree

over the first taste of a very special pear

it was a beautiful fight loud & hard to follow

reminding everyone of a trapeze routine at the circus

a crowd formed & grew & chanting soon billowed

calling for this hurly-burly never to end

because this is the fight no one could ever lose

because watching was warm & sweet as a golden pear

in the time after the cure (the melancholia of broken hearts)

in the time after the cure (the melancholia of broken hearts)

“Last Disease Cured!” headlines announced

and talking heads began to envision the future

but doctors’ offices and hospitals never became

the vacant wastes of space that everyone envisioned

waiting rooms were flooded day after day, night after night

with the gathering of the incurable scar of melancholia

•

the day after humans finally cured

ever single disease known to humanity

the consequences were stunning

free of sickness humans experienced sloth

of a magnitude before unknown to humanity

the sloth of healthy humans made laziness

in the time of disease seem to be high ambition

yet one obstacle remained robust

no cure existed for the aftermath of a broken heart

that made that sloth seem a minor inconvenience

these pathetic humans wallowed in what could not be

and fell blind to the happiness of other people’s bliss

this cancer no one could touch

in the time after the cure healthy humans discovered

the inevitability of being human in their longings

injury still held promise after no more creeping disease

but nothing else could ever equal the weight of the heart

heavy and hollow when not loved

nothing of course can cover that which can’t be recovered

and loneliness is the hammer no medicine or doctor can treat

in the time after the cure humanity realized mortality was not

the thing that made them human after all—not like love at least

taking her pulse (struck)

taking her pulse (struck)

he could never escape

the urge to take her pulse

as she had taken his

after sending it racing

pressing his finger tips

to the softness of her wrist

gently enough to feel

the pulsing of her heart

but this was only part of the story

he could never escape

the urge to take her pulse

pressing his parted lips

to the softness of her wrist

tasting, breathing the rhythm

of only her heart stirred by this

•

and he knew when they found his pile of ash

no one would be able to reconstruct

this inevitable of his being struck

the friction of these pulses sparked

the bolt that left its indelible mark

she took his breath and his pulse

ashen fingertips and smiling lips

longing for thunderstorms

longing for thunderstorms

i recognized the lightning

by the darkness in between

these thunderstorms at night

that shower everything clean

i understood the belonging

by the longing in between

the absence and silence of you

as if our hurricane had never been

•

especially at night

i find myself alone

longing for thunderstorms

my mouth tastes of copper

because i have been struck

charged by the electricity of you