When I look in the mirror, I wonder
what I would look like if the bags under
my eyes never stopped growing. That they
would have to be wrapped around my neck
like scarves, their fragile, silky heads
writhing like snakes across the pages of
my book, my hand pushing them away
as I write - Carriers of all the
dreams I'm not allowed to have, and
purses for all the dreamless nights
They've strangled from me.
For now, my eyes droop far enough.
I don't have to smile anymore to make
their suitcases noticeable - carrying
all my thoughts and late-night philosophies,
like a badge of honor.
Bags of baggage - the only kind that hold
so much, but stand for so
much emptiness.
11/18, 4:15 AM
Edited 1/4 2:07 AM
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Last Things from the Apt.
The things I carried weren't heavy -
They fit into a box under my arm.
The glass I used as a vase for the
flowers you bought me, that were
supposed to make it to our new place,
but kept being left behind.
The scratch pad I bought for my cats
when I first moved in, to dissuade
them from destroying the wicker
furniture that anyway they never touched.
A bar of herbal stain remover, a roll
of recycled paper towels, some
baking soda, castile soap, my
efforts to never use artificial cleaner -
A vow I broke the last day I was there,
after finding a bottle of chemicals
cowering under sink (I put it back).
In my other arm I carried the
moldy towels we'd used inside
our fridge to catch the drip-drip
from our icebox freezer, a FedEx
package for you, and an Eve Sedgwick
book that's since been recalled
to the library.
Before I left, I swept up our remains;
piles of dust bunnies, raccoons, and
tiny kittens forming and dancing
in the corners of our past life,
trickling down the stairs,
pursued by our dustpan, which
wasn't really ours (I put it back, too).
I shook the sheetless bed of its blanket
of dust and fidelity, and picked pieces
of our memories out of the carpet.
The hair, the dust, the dreams,
so much fell through my fingers and
is still scattered on the linoleum floor.
You can see them lying there,
in the pictures I took as I left.
I found pieces of your first visit
here, as I lie on the bed before leaving,
pieces of your devotion that I had saved
to wrap around myself while we
were apart. I found remnants
of our loving gazes and aching goodbyes
caught in the screen of our window
that faced the long driveway. I put
as many of these in my pocket
as I could. Our goodbyes now don't
have those gazes, where we live.
I carry a lot of warmth with me
to our new place, still cold and shiny
from being scrubbed bare of all
the pain that was once housed there.
I plan to decorate the walls again
with as much of my devotion as will
stick, and dust the carpet with
new memories, as they form.
The towels I'll wash, and the scratch
pad will hang on another doorknob,
hopefully dissuading the cats from
scratching the sofa your parents
brought us, which they've already
discovered. And I'll layer our bed
with the fidelity that's left, and hope
to make it extra toasty with my
electric blanket for you, once it
gets colder outside and you need
a place beside me, to keep warm.
- 10/12
They fit into a box under my arm.
The glass I used as a vase for the
flowers you bought me, that were
supposed to make it to our new place,
but kept being left behind.
The scratch pad I bought for my cats
when I first moved in, to dissuade
them from destroying the wicker
furniture that anyway they never touched.
A bar of herbal stain remover, a roll
of recycled paper towels, some
baking soda, castile soap, my
efforts to never use artificial cleaner -
A vow I broke the last day I was there,
after finding a bottle of chemicals
cowering under sink (I put it back).
In my other arm I carried the
moldy towels we'd used inside
our fridge to catch the drip-drip
from our icebox freezer, a FedEx
package for you, and an Eve Sedgwick
book that's since been recalled
to the library.
Before I left, I swept up our remains;
piles of dust bunnies, raccoons, and
tiny kittens forming and dancing
in the corners of our past life,
trickling down the stairs,
pursued by our dustpan, which
wasn't really ours (I put it back, too).
I shook the sheetless bed of its blanket
of dust and fidelity, and picked pieces
of our memories out of the carpet.
The hair, the dust, the dreams,
so much fell through my fingers and
is still scattered on the linoleum floor.
You can see them lying there,
in the pictures I took as I left.
I found pieces of your first visit
here, as I lie on the bed before leaving,
pieces of your devotion that I had saved
to wrap around myself while we
were apart. I found remnants
of our loving gazes and aching goodbyes
caught in the screen of our window
that faced the long driveway. I put
as many of these in my pocket
as I could. Our goodbyes now don't
have those gazes, where we live.
I carry a lot of warmth with me
to our new place, still cold and shiny
from being scrubbed bare of all
the pain that was once housed there.
I plan to decorate the walls again
with as much of my devotion as will
stick, and dust the carpet with
new memories, as they form.
The towels I'll wash, and the scratch
pad will hang on another doorknob,
hopefully dissuading the cats from
scratching the sofa your parents
brought us, which they've already
discovered. And I'll layer our bed
with the fidelity that's left, and hope
to make it extra toasty with my
electric blanket for you, once it
gets colder outside and you need
a place beside me, to keep warm.
- 10/12
On Foot
We're adults now, you and me,
Somewhere past the carefree childhood
fuck-all to the fuck-each-other,
looking up from my essays on transgender
composition theory at you and your
zen and motorcycle maintenance,
or, rather, to the book eclipsing your face;
My gaze is drawn to your chiseled legs,
feet slender with a perfect arch, your
hand laying limp on the belt line
of a perfect torso -
I look at my feet, too, protruding from
beyond your computer in my lap,
and I realize how big we are, how
adult we are - making our own way,
carving out livelihoods,
our paths of sexuality and
identity, all on our own - on foot, even.
And this is the texture of our future,
of us, of our lives, of the
biopolitics of the nation we'd be anxious
to leave -
though for now I'm content to sip
my tea and ogle you behind your book
until its time for those perfect arches
to carry you to bed with me.
7/29
Somewhere past the carefree childhood
fuck-all to the fuck-each-other,
looking up from my essays on transgender
composition theory at you and your
zen and motorcycle maintenance,
or, rather, to the book eclipsing your face;
My gaze is drawn to your chiseled legs,
feet slender with a perfect arch, your
hand laying limp on the belt line
of a perfect torso -
I look at my feet, too, protruding from
beyond your computer in my lap,
and I realize how big we are, how
adult we are - making our own way,
carving out livelihoods,
our paths of sexuality and
identity, all on our own - on foot, even.
And this is the texture of our future,
of us, of our lives, of the
biopolitics of the nation we'd be anxious
to leave -
though for now I'm content to sip
my tea and ogle you behind your book
until its time for those perfect arches
to carry you to bed with me.
7/29
Sunday, July 12, 2009
WGM. European.
Okay, we'll admit it. All so many
mouths and moussed-up hairs, tight
and tighter jeans sprouting out of
pink handkerchief ancestry into tanning
beds and Lady Gaga. You're absolutely
right, from the ohgodwhatwereyouthinking?
to the mygodhowbigwashe?
with mouthfuls of French and Spanish wines -
We all fall in line, just as you say,
one behind the other, behind the other;
Descendants of all of Europe's catty bitches,
we're queens of our country, inadvertently
owning the scene "with liberty and justice
for all," we say, even when we know it isn't yet, really.
And this one's ex-lover, now best
friend, is this one's best friend's new lover,
and star-struck, and love-crossed, our
bonds of brotherhood are made easier
because we're who we are - right again -
though you should know, since you know us so well,
we never really chose to be this way, did we?
7/12
mouths and moussed-up hairs, tight
and tighter jeans sprouting out of
pink handkerchief ancestry into tanning
beds and Lady Gaga. You're absolutely
right, from the ohgodwhatwereyouthinking?
to the mygodhowbigwashe?
with mouthfuls of French and Spanish wines -
We all fall in line, just as you say,
one behind the other, behind the other;
Descendants of all of Europe's catty bitches,
we're queens of our country, inadvertently
owning the scene "with liberty and justice
for all," we say, even when we know it isn't yet, really.
And this one's ex-lover, now best
friend, is this one's best friend's new lover,
and star-struck, and love-crossed, our
bonds of brotherhood are made easier
because we're who we are - right again -
though you should know, since you know us so well,
we never really chose to be this way, did we?
7/12
Out of the Closets, and Into the Streets!
I had no coming-out story -
for me it was a slow and gentle slide
rather than a leap - a hiding still,
a cautious peek around sharp corners
of the inner rooms of "every fiber of
my being." We shouldn't be coming-out
anymore, anyway - we should just be, just
be out in the streets; remembering,
of course, the places from which
we came, but focused now only on
ourselves, and the dance, like summer
childhood, when the fire hydrant breaks
and everyone, young and old,
celebrates amidst the falling water and
rainbows of the cloudless skies of future -
and all of it outdoors, where we are seen.
All of it movement. All of it
present.
7/7
for me it was a slow and gentle slide
rather than a leap - a hiding still,
a cautious peek around sharp corners
of the inner rooms of "every fiber of
my being." We shouldn't be coming-out
anymore, anyway - we should just be, just
be out in the streets; remembering,
of course, the places from which
we came, but focused now only on
ourselves, and the dance, like summer
childhood, when the fire hydrant breaks
and everyone, young and old,
celebrates amidst the falling water and
rainbows of the cloudless skies of future -
and all of it outdoors, where we are seen.
All of it movement. All of it
present.
7/7
The Train
"a swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that one can't see - that's my idea of happiness"
- Portrait of a Lady
I have to admit there's a certain beauty in Oklahoma.
The sun setting over the bush-tree hills that crest the creeks
and red-dirt gullies remind me so much of my childhood visits
to this state. The train takes us through wilderness, and I
feel closer to nature this way, as if the hills and trees had just
only moments ago parted expressly to let us wedge ourselves
through, only to close again once we have passed. Cows dot the fields,
still green under the golden sky as the sun sinks lower and warms the horizon
like buttered toast. The train's whistle blows, a sign that we're passing
civilization, and all heads look out at tiny towns, and suburbs,
gone as quickly as they there in the frame of each window.
The sun seems to warm the moisture in the air, and the fields
in the distance appear to steam like a Roman bath, reminding me
of the Smoky mountains behind a home my grandparents used to live.
Rolls of hay and grass stand like statues on the checkerboards of
shaved landscape. A car. A tractor. And rows of these round,
yellow sentinels - sometimes the surrounding fields look like
a green carpet, with hardly any texture of grass.
The train jostles us along, and my pen is often unsteady,
adding to the timeless feeling of grinding through the wilderness
for the first time, ignoring the signs of established life, and
the technology beneath and before me, to think myself a pioneer
out to investigate new lands and frontiers, to capture that horizon
and chase that glowing orb across the other end of those fields,
behind those trees. I fancy we might stop, and all of us
get out into some open field, and dance together under lamplight,
picnicing in the cooling, wet grass, amidst the orange and black
shadows of twilight. I wave at the setting sun's last goodbyes, and
wave at the tiny people as we pass.
I adore the train.
6/29
- Portrait of a Lady
I have to admit there's a certain beauty in Oklahoma.
The sun setting over the bush-tree hills that crest the creeks
and red-dirt gullies remind me so much of my childhood visits
to this state. The train takes us through wilderness, and I
feel closer to nature this way, as if the hills and trees had just
only moments ago parted expressly to let us wedge ourselves
through, only to close again once we have passed. Cows dot the fields,
still green under the golden sky as the sun sinks lower and warms the horizon
like buttered toast. The train's whistle blows, a sign that we're passing
civilization, and all heads look out at tiny towns, and suburbs,
gone as quickly as they there in the frame of each window.
The sun seems to warm the moisture in the air, and the fields
in the distance appear to steam like a Roman bath, reminding me
of the Smoky mountains behind a home my grandparents used to live.
Rolls of hay and grass stand like statues on the checkerboards of
shaved landscape. A car. A tractor. And rows of these round,
yellow sentinels - sometimes the surrounding fields look like
a green carpet, with hardly any texture of grass.
The train jostles us along, and my pen is often unsteady,
adding to the timeless feeling of grinding through the wilderness
for the first time, ignoring the signs of established life, and
the technology beneath and before me, to think myself a pioneer
out to investigate new lands and frontiers, to capture that horizon
and chase that glowing orb across the other end of those fields,
behind those trees. I fancy we might stop, and all of us
get out into some open field, and dance together under lamplight,
picnicing in the cooling, wet grass, amidst the orange and black
shadows of twilight. I wave at the setting sun's last goodbyes, and
wave at the tiny people as we pass.
I adore the train.
6/29
you came out as my mother died
You came out as my mother died -
two separate experiences exhaled
individually into the air that now
equals our lives together.
Maybe it wasn't the same hour,
month, or year, but what we call the past
is not made of separate days, or years,
but exists as a cloud gathering
collectively behind us as we move forward,
a fog touched only by our eyes when we
are dreaming. My mother freed herself
from the chains that bound her as you
escaped into the liberation of adulthood
and fearless identity - I watched her
leave and felt the ache as I grew away but
slowly toward the idea of what
you would become. Perhaps part of
myself was released when she died, the
part that parallels the freedom you
found before I'd even hoped for it.
She left, and maybe in some distant fog
she met your secret self, and nudged
you down your path toward me.
And she felt freedom in the
end of time just as you were plotting
your time's beginning, opening yourself
into a world where soon I would join you,
both of us feeling the pain of separation
and the cleaving, and the gnawing, with
the clouds of our past mingling, colliding,
into the turbulent, passionate storms
and driving rains of our present, that feed
the beautiful nature of our future.
6/15 (edited 7/12)
two separate experiences exhaled
individually into the air that now
equals our lives together.
Maybe it wasn't the same hour,
month, or year, but what we call the past
is not made of separate days, or years,
but exists as a cloud gathering
collectively behind us as we move forward,
a fog touched only by our eyes when we
are dreaming. My mother freed herself
from the chains that bound her as you
escaped into the liberation of adulthood
and fearless identity - I watched her
leave and felt the ache as I grew away but
slowly toward the idea of what
you would become. Perhaps part of
myself was released when she died, the
part that parallels the freedom you
found before I'd even hoped for it.
She left, and maybe in some distant fog
she met your secret self, and nudged
you down your path toward me.
And she felt freedom in the
end of time just as you were plotting
your time's beginning, opening yourself
into a world where soon I would join you,
both of us feeling the pain of separation
and the cleaving, and the gnawing, with
the clouds of our past mingling, colliding,
into the turbulent, passionate storms
and driving rains of our present, that feed
the beautiful nature of our future.
6/15 (edited 7/12)
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