Thursday, September 27, 2012

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. 

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

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

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

Monday, September 24, 2012

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

Sunday, September 23, 2012

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

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

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

Monday, September 10, 2012

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