how revolutionary it is to let
something you love kill you
to let something indecent
or what ever is left of it
let it claim you
all of your private thoughts,
your dangling arms,
and calloused feet
letting it fill your lungs
and spill from your lips
how sweet to be possessed and then transformed,
evolved into something more warm
and smoother around the edges.
You become nothing more than a catalyst,
the only thing mattering now
is the throbbing goodness of pleasing
the very thing we’ve become a slave to.
Her body promised such sensuality. It seemed polished with a shiny wax as she laid in the dark-blue stitch of midnight. She was a priestess in her own tiny castle. A mother to all his demons and the one to keep his bed warm. She roamed the room like a lioness, purring, marking territory that was rightfully hers. A woman, so filled with catty femininity, a fiery sex kitten. That would snatch the sun from the sky and swallow it whole. Who knew she would meet her match in a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Taking on the image of man but a wild mess. By coincidence, they were both greater proofs of wildness together. They would lull each other into dreamy embrace. Just for a moment, take possession of each other until, with pleasurable amounts of begging, return their souls to one another. She would offer her mouth to him, and he would give her life in small acts. They would kiss for momentary lifetimes and fill each others’ space with excitement. Nothing was ever planned. It all was discovered. Their sex would catch the light that streamed through from the street. Beautiful pliable sex.
After awhile it gets hard to sort through the heap of accumulated personae, those external selves as backup generators in use more than our True self. We are many things in one, a legion of inherited traits and moods and defense mechanisms. Always conflicted by love, dependence and anger. We are nothing but our phobias, obsessions, impulses, fantasies and compulsions. And what of our repression? Our unresolved conflicts, like terrible thorns on a blacken rose that cannot be ignored. We hide those thorns that need to be tended to, because we are too proud of our misfortunes, feeling as if no one deserves the weight of it all as much as ourselves. We are all hiding.
How you know who are here is when God closes a door and in rage, creatures begin to dig holes with their fingertips into the ground, burrowing themselves into another mistaken Heaven. The creatures here are vile men with hearts of gold, heavy spirits who were once at your door offering you salvation with their weary love.
These men who would follow you to the water’s edge, out to sea, even in the currents of your dreams. That man who would move slow like honey; that could make sweet of his own name. He is here along with the one who smelled of Jameson and cigarettes, who as a child would sneakily touch on your thigh when your mother was in the kitchen. Each and every enchanting man with their wicked incantations and uncommitted nature are stuck here to be those nothing in particulars.
You see a home where there is no bread but ‘lots of wine.
Invisible wives connected to disincarnated entities of kitchen appliances.
Every wife, wherever she may be, comes here after death. They are all a nucleus of radiating submissiveness, vibrating hues that are Clorox-bleach white or freshly squeezed, and sugary lemonade yellow.
This is one of three realms that Earth science cannot yet understand, a shadowy zone for those who have been forgotten in the homes of men who’ve exploited, stood over, and hated.
These are the women who the world turned a deaf ear to. How their marital duties became chains they so horribly dragged behind them.
These are the women who knew reticence, knowing what can be said and what can’t,
fearing the word ‘respect’ and accompanied unkept feelings with ‘upkept’ homes.
Here cleans the forgetful women who long to begin again,
making nice of their homely imprisonment.
I. The oak trees are therapists,
surely knowing my affliction
as sure as they know the wind blows east.
The old dangling branches resembles neurons
twisting and reaching for the open sky.
II. An ancient whisper speaks in the breeze
from leaf to leaf,
a forgotten language of love.
Even the strongest tree has a taste for vulnerability,
like hummingbirds buzzing in place
attacking the wounds in the bark that oozes sap.
I place my hand on the stubborn flesh
caressing as a chiropractor does the spine
III. I wish I could grow like an idle tree,
into the soil where dark things are grown to be loved,
near a cemetery,
or somewhere high up
in between the shadows
or the burning sun.
I will grow here
and grow forever,
singing my own healing song
I have lived by the misty lake
with the grumpy mudfish,
and the stubborn algae
that stick to my knees for some time.
Seek me out in the cattails along the bank.
There you will see me, bare
in all my stupidity
for loving a man who cannot see the beauty of the tranquil water
taking up space so beautifully,
like my body in his embrace,
a water lily
floating with no direction,
in the reflected watery sky.
I remembered I would take refuge by the lake
that is glassy in the noontime,
to purify my tears,
calcified tears that
made it hard to see.
I would tred the uncertain lake
with uneasy feet,
my unleveled arms in front of me.
There I was,
with tired eyes and no direction.
Who was I to be then?