Since a boy, I’ve known this of myself, tho I’ve pretended, wishing otherwise as I wept inside my tall solitude– I’ve known this of my creed, be there any still remaining, unhidden, be there any known to themselves. We are a translucent-walled love, our empathy outwardly facing, loving without limit of judgment, living only to give until our souls would perish of our love’s gifted sanctuary– and as the phoenix, able to resurrect after we’d been extinguished, burned to ash, staggering bloodied after impalement by doubt’s curved-sword blades, rising– to love again, unable leave even one vagabond spirit behind, tho we’d be labeled unchaste, misconstrued, mistaken, leaving none forsaken– if only we’d enough days, enough sunrise-promises for all, aye– to fall, smitten with each lovely essence encountered, even in our forced silence, tho not intended to be loved in return; our souls’ presence felt, a warm strangeness blanketing the bleak winter of lonesome moments, as we visit, carried upon a stilling wind’s drift, and of our hearts, torn and bleeding, tho inviolable– no corked-bottle wall shall hold our shape within its tapered-green-glass confinement. Only this clear, oily-shine sphere, its pale rainbows sliding ‘crost our compassion’s curved-lens vision, this aqueous vesicle into which we’d been born, in which we live, and that in which we shall pass, may we call our home.
I’ll be re-writing this until my last day, never really finding the right words.
When they find our rubble, our pixelated digitalia, they’d think us an uninteresting generation; our wars– not fought for love, our art– wishing reciprocity.
Lonesome winter, she leaves us now, love– not banished, tho departed– left to find that which’d been whispered, those frozen-breath promises, those crystal-glow wishes, found drifting upon her own bitter gales– fled this white stillness, of her chilled and obstinate pith– only a pale-gown memory persists, fluttering, within slow-spinning shadows of these taller-days’ warming, her rattling shackles fallen still, broken-open, as she’s wearied of her shivering hostility, remembered, learned again– she’d silken wings.
Aye, Spring– shall we, once and forever, be– forgiven our humanness?
I’d a memory of beige and lavender’s gentle sway, tho I’d not been certain we’d, together, seen this place, nor even I, alone. Still, your grace’d been known, this– your presence, a warm haunting, a lovely nurturance feeding my sunken-skin impoverishment. Gulping swallows of you– I’d tasted, again, bathing my lips with your sustenance, this needed love, gifted only to one– a sturdy home– twice, and without rescindment, offered to a tattered-sleeve vagabond soul, wheresoever its blown drift might wander, wheresoever Spring’s amber aerials might scatter– this dusty spirit’s ashes of compassion, be I laid amid sun-painted white-flower clover, or carried by evening’s legions of whispers to their dark-parlor wildernesses, find me; as I am only love, given, in this moment– tho thrown by wind’s whimsy. Gather me, as my falling empathy lights upon linen skin. Gather me, love, that I’d be again– whole.
This world of word’s drunken-stagger inadequacy and misconception’s begging-orphan poverty is the loneliest I’ve ever known; tho with batting eyes, and a silken show of thigh, she welcomes me home.
Next time, bring your wine. Drink with me with til we’re sloppy– drunk with truth and love and hate. Say all the things we daren’t say. Laugh, cry, beat my chest with your fists. Then make hard, truthful love to me. Gnash your teeth. Take as you need. Feed.
All is forgiven, ye Sirens. Tho I’ve black memories of my drownings, I’ve no hostilities held– where once you’d been.
Still, it’s someone else’s turn to be loved; sing your song, sing your song, one shall come.
She’s a percipient mind– brilliant, ravenous, twisted, and just; I’ve watched its Furies disassemble a facsimile offered, stripping the carcass of even its marrow, its falsities discarded, leaving only my huddled madness, which had always been.
When this was written, it wasn’t entirely true– the biggest part of who I am still not fully understood, while the short prose suggests a complete understanding. Poetry is like that; half a story. Still, more of me had been known than had been dared by any other, and there are always more poems.
It was a time of honest madness and of madness’s honesty, up all night in a small, dirty apartment, writing, drawing, sculpting, forgetting to eat or sleep. If not doing one of those three things, I had my nose in a philosophy book, furiously scribbling smudgy notes, my pedestrian notions, that had arrived only by the grace of reading the brilliant thoughts of truly great men. By contrast, I was just a cat batting at my own shadows on the wall. Still, I read.
There were some women during that time, attracted to the art, wishing to understand the artist. In truth, despite my introspection, I didn’t fully understand myself. None of them lasted, and while I hungered to be known to someone, by someone, none were even capable of understanding. They weren’t the one, if such a thing exists; I’ve argued otherwise. Still– each, in time, became a thought unspoken, a conversation abandoned.
Then, after all the tumult of finding myself, or parts thereof, even at the expense of love, I abandoned myself as well, for twenty years. I became what I had eschewed, a shill for the corporate world, stable and respectable. Given enough time to dissect it all, I might discover the reasons, though I’ve my suspicions.
I’m back now, ready to find the rest of me, that which I had torn to confetti, like a bad sketch, that which I’d given the wind’s careless whims two decades prior. The crude rendering above, which I have always felt captured my essence closely, is a twenty year old self portrait, large sections not yet solved, the entirety loosely defined, less known than unknown, unfinished, as are we all.
In the time between, I’ve only words, clumsy creatures, falling over face-first, imprecise instruments, incapable of symphony. Still, I wish you might know how I feel, even if diminished by the bludgeon of words.
While neither can be fully conveyed by herald, truth and love, symbiotic, are of the same atmosphere, breathing of each other. Both taken deep into our lungs as well– they are the air we breathe, to live, they are the unspoken things, given and taken, exchanged freely between souls, in the space between a gaze.
I had missed the love I see in your eyes. I had missed your truth. I had missed your entirety.
..And I hope you’ll forgive my cross-finger rebuke of this zombified resurrection, this craven, staggering halfling. It’s just that I still remember you as the nameless emotion that the torn-paper poets violate the stars and galaxies to find; it’s just that I still think of you as the back-alley stabbing, the warm-crimson forgiveness, the irresistible impossibility of love, personified.