Sunday, November 29, 2009

Ruined


You ruined it for me. If it weren't for you I'd enjoy a lot more sex. Better sex. Each woman who comes on to me, cast calling me into their unplayed dreams. Invitation to plant in their pocked yard. I could fulfill them if not for you. I could play into their illusions if you had left mine intact. The whole trouble starts when I recognize you looking at me through their eyes; I expect your courage.

Until I see how they think. Layers warm transparent in the heat of proximity, a few turn back, and I find out. They will choose fear over and over. In choosing what to think, what to feel, do, say. And that's when I realize how unlike you they have become. Then I can't even stand the reflection of your original. Sidewalk art goes beyond tacky to useless: who can bear to dishonor it by stepping on it? Or the greater dishonor to sidestep it? The real thing combined with the fake thing is doubly unbearable.

When did you do this? Were you someone I met when love seemed no more dangerous than blossoming friendship, bosom buddies, pals with boobies? And how far away are you now, a thousand breaths or a thousand lifes? Yeah I always saw you behind her eyes. That look women get. Adoring eyes more than bless the land, they are the mother's love itself, unearthed and reborn. Before fear's apple tempts anyway, that's the look. That look always felt like the way you looked at me. No mystery where the myth of Adam and Eve comes from. Every recapitulation disappoints in the same way. A woman's love taps all womanity, exhumes your fearless brilliance. And then the parade of choices made in fear reveal how far they've fallen from your grace.

Just like all men are Don Juan's sireling crossed with the feckless fathers of their deflowered daughters. The trappings of romantic abandon trapped inside lustful insatiable cowardice.

Just like all women combine the impossibly generous longing of mother earth with the terrified beasts of her abandoned daughters. Loving eye temptation into the desolation of tornadoed gardens. Bounty reaped too soon by fearful outrage, the crop passes from unripe to rotten without the chance to nourish. Before acceptance and understanding mature, friendship's harvest is called off by horrific anticipation. The blessings of all their mothers take me in. Then the rage of all their fathers stops them from accepting whole. The warmth of fire draws near, then destroys what it would have cleansed.

She seemed so bold alive that I could tell her anything. It was a trap. (Though hers, not mine.) As soon as I said something that reminded her of hurt, she began to punish and to reform. As if her job were to recognize evil early enough to fix or flee. To count death's coming by its red flags. In this way she greeted the coming of new life as its opposite. I'd be quite happy with her now if not for you, plowing under new ideas, burying them below where they'd never sprout. It would not feel like death to me.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Well That Just Happened


What would I write if I had no fear? What would I say to the infinitely curious?

It's as if a thirsty guest gaped at the painting on my well cover and gushed with interest. But removing the cover their eyes flowed down to the side where I lay it. Kneeling to look closer they implored me to speak of the time when the rich colors flowed with life. The sparkle from their upturned face contrasted with the other sparkle, which they could not see from their vantage. The restless inky gloom held no promise for them at all, not even an idea of quenching anything.

I fascinate people from time to time but it never seems to be for the hoped-for reasons. Is their attention wrong? Is my hope? Or am I lacking in some extent and realism of my arts?