She’s her affinity for practicality, and I’m the penniless anarchy of art.
Principles are such troubling, puzzling trifles that few understand why I might collect such curious things, as I wind one up and it marches around noisily, banging its drum.
long ago, and not so long ago
all of this seemed possible
I thought to myself
that I could be a writer
you know, make a real go of it
sometimes, on sunrise mornings
even saying so– out loud
tho, I’d been alone
at the time
This disregarded fan spins madly above my head, wobbling in space, looking as though it might fall from its heavens in exhaustion at any moment, yet it never does.
Instead, it perseveres, dutifully spinning on it wobbling voyage to nowhere, without questioning why, or if, it should continue. It just keeps spinning, furtively, presumably out of habit, or for an elusive sense of worth, because that is the limit of its experience, because that it the limit of its dare.
Having accepted a purposed shape, a definition, its limits of possibility have also been defined, as it spins, continually, into its oblivion of infinity.
Will you remember me when all the false lovers have gone, when the warm wind chases across the desert of a soul, searching, loosed from the embrace which’d held it once tight to the bosom, will you remember my name, love, will you whisper it softly, to the angels, wherever they’ve found sanctuary?
We kept our dreams on the top shelf, with the good liquor, tucked to the back, out of reach, saved for a time to come, saved for someday– but we both knew; each of the days pulled over the shadowy edge, swimming into earth’s arched-spine spinning ecstasy, explodes into her moist middle, tho never impregnating the bitch, never creating more time. She takes, and takes, and takes, until we are wholly spent, until we see the glaring stare of infinity, until we feel its hungering abyss grasp us by the wrists. And I suppose you’d like it if I wrote you a love poem, like I used to do. And I suppose I’d write one, my love, if it’d do either of us any damned good.
“I can’t even lift my hand anymore to put mascara on my left eye,” she told me, her voice crackling under the weight of endless days. I wondered what it must be like, to be once beautiful, and then to know how broken one has become, a fractured-ivory shell, hollowed by the whisper-echoes of hope’s baby-breath promises, the little remaining of a person shrinking against its thin, grayed walls, bridesmaid bouquets, once cradled in spring-sunshine’s golden naivety, held in silent memory– but then I realized that I already knew, that we all do; I’d wanted to tell her that I loved her, and that love is not pity, that love is not blind, that love is without condition, and that all is forgiven.
A mind grows weary of the rain’s falling assault, tho the sky never tires of its gray churn, and a mind starts to wonder– what is it under this spray-vandal’s heaven, that is real? Is any of this– sincerity, or is falsity the only sincerity which has ever been? Is there anyone– truthful, under this murky sky? Is there anyone smaller than themselves, would anyone dare become small enough to allow another to be, to just– be? Will the rain bring us flowers, lovers, will it gift us, with simplicity?
To see only his eyes, black and narrow, without any shine, any reflection, from outside, nor within, you wouldn’t know if he were alive, or waxen. We were high on mescaline, and I watched Leo change from nothing, to something, a dark King, and then back to nothing, but colored blood-red this time. At least that was what I thought I’d seen. His brother was there with us as well, in the second floor square-building apartment, one of the invisible people, and I still can’t remember his face; I couldn’t remember it if I was staring right at it. His mother lived there too, some nights, but I’d never seen her, to forget. I thought on it later, stumbling home amid and between the owl-screech, puddle-ripple street-people. Someone had named him, ‘Leonard’. Someone had held him, daydreamed in yellow sunbeams of all the possibility he held, a whispered hope to escape the aching-gray suffocation of this place, and then someone– had forgotten their promise.
I wrote a poem about her once; the damned thing rhymed. She deserved more of me– tho it’s been decades, tho I was one of hundreds, thousands maybe, and I’ve no illusion she’s ever given me a second thought, and that’s alright. Most times, a fleeting touch– as each escapes into the scattered ash of night’s criminality, is all we’re gifted of another soul, a fingertip-brush over the burned-city soot, exposing the streetlamp-flicker luster– tho we’d give it tall heels and call it love as we watch its leaning shadow twitch and strut– tho we’d dare, now and again– tho we’d dare dream.