Valediction: Living By The Rules of The Primal

There are mornings I dive deep beneath my consciousness and hammer until solid at the things I will say when I catch you unguarded and surrendering without choice to my presence (as I surrendered to you). Hypothetically, this moment is ours. But, if I will simply approach you from behind (as you did to me), with my hands on your shoulders (as yours were on mine), and lean in to allow the light to reflect from my eyes. Cheek bones in slow contact, brushing you with terror (as yours brushed mine ["So close, but how?"]). Valediction. I have nothing to say, I only have to remind you that you were never up to me.

Quitclaim: Hands As Default Bilingualism

You will tend to him
The way you tend to lie
Always
A turnstile of compromise
Turn to him,
Turn to you
My turn to
change me unrecognizeably
the one you fucked inside out
My turn to
Acknowledge everyone before--
the participants of my jaded heart, they are
Apologetically their own for precursing a
disaster in already troubled regions
Telling a story of intuition,
Of heartbreak, of a long time coming

like the gestures
of human hands
Because I do not possess
a word that will ever
make a difference
In compelling the
human in you
to rise

Sunday, July 01, 2007

I would like to return, to that time when I was too small to know that the world that we're living in is breaking apart, continuously reforming, never to appear the same. All the time, all around us. The same way that natural disasters remind us our earth is broken without a safe place, you remind me there's no such thing as a solid emotion or a surety in intuition. When I drive past flooded fields, highways, parks, etcetera... the air through my windows numbs my arm cold, wet, but underneath, burning. And I arm my heart for the aria of love.

What flooded first? The river or that deep heat from my eyebrows to my cheek-bones. After the sun (and after reality) can burn it all away it's clean to see that the water was never a sky blue ocean. In fact, the only thing I saw in it in the first place was the sky. It was reflecting something else to want. Just looking in the wrong direction. The enigma in all of this was slipped neatly into the horizon, like the letters I sent you, slipped neatly in envelopes.

I wait all night for your horizon, and even as I do, I know you're not coming. I see heartbreak rise with the setting sun. All of this is nothing new; it's used, recycled and renamed. Same misguided affection, different history, similar feast on illusioned pretenses.

I'm bought and sold.

The Soldiering

There is a strange comfort in the point of your life when your face becomes so familiar, catching your reflection becomes a second nature vision of something you've slowly tended to for nineteen years, a unfinished masterpiece, your eyes play to a tune of things that you say you won't do but in a few years, you will.

As we are all constantly changing through a mode of generosity and reproach, forgiveness and forgetfullness I am trying my very best to remember the girl I owe a few very important things. I owe an argument, I owe a reparation, I owe a silent night of windows and rain and dinner with no conversation. I need it to become clear to me, how long I wait. How long I wait for the steady missing to drag me down into a well full of naysayers telling me that the salvation of our friendship is non-negotiable. I say to their nay that we must first acknowledge there are so many loose ends we must committ ourselves to loom together the salvation of eight years a friendship unraveled in one night by third party hands.

And then I remember that with or without you, my chest raises a heaving, breathing breath. With or without you, I hold my jaw a profile to paralell azimuth. With or without you, we both continue as the soldiering, sharing no difference from condemned men.

We could soldier either way.

The Anthropology of The Machinist

It is often I find that mirrors function as checkpoints in the question if you or I are even real. And the ardent crying is an expulsion of you, much like vomiting is an expulsion of indulging in an excess of wine. And I indulged in wine to to expel a solicitous loneliness, the quicker fix.

You should feel venerated [dishonoris causa] that you are a prime exception of the deficit in my attention as I have exhausted months working through you. The heart is a pump. The lungs are bellows. And what I am working through is attempting to understand what comprises your heart. It is a remarkable machine, apparently omniscient and hurriedly competing over scarce resources including but not limited to love by way of lust. You are the devoid of power, devoid of control, snatching it wherever you find it unguarded. And this, this stands a barrier to your ability to participate in love. You live love with a suspect heart. And your latent dysfunction of love has manifested itself a dramaturgical analysis of love within love - we humans so highly variable.

As you read, I'm sure you feel me like you haven't felt before (won't feel again); the cold disconnect of my words (I've reserved passion for things worthwhile, of which you are no longer a part) you can come and then come and then come to the same conclusion as I. You have given evidence that you do not possess love. This is no longer (about) love. This is no longer humanity. This is anthropology. This is science. And I conclude the solution to your loveless love is a redesignation of the entire infrastructure of your heart (as it is operating from finite resources including but not limited to the bodies of violently loving young men). The solution is volcanic. An eruption for disaster. A heart blue, then olive, gray, orange, now black, but soon steel. My obsession with your machination could prove to be detrimental to my survival, you see, as I will find no meaning, no truth in your mechanical, metal heart. It functions to offer a reflection that yes, this, you, I - no, not us - were real but more importantly a reflection that my time as the tortured hearted has become outmoded.