fissive riffs Jun 18, 2007 - 22:43 PM
It would take your entire life to explain yourself to me
but I want you to try
I wanted since the moment I caught your eye
I knew I wanted you to
try we are forever separated by the barrier of skin
and there's no implement we can wield to get passage within And if you refuse then I must tell my story
I must tell my story of me looking at you looking at me I tell myself of the impossibility of you
I tell myself to turnaway, because seeing and not having is
a kind of hell I want no part of
I extract this, slice open sinew to remove the memory of the curve of
your perfect lips slightly parted
grieve for the smoothness of the skin
your neck
my lips brushed against them
your perfect blue eyes
you, I cast away, are lost to me in the rivers of change I see you drift
away and
the hollowness in me is the mold of your shape When we met I prayed: let this fissive potential die let me not
experience
this explosiveness
let me live a life without joy, because joy ends and with them you and I
without you
would stumble blindly into a kind of hell I want no part of
and When I saw you I prayed: let this fissive potential die let me not
experience this explosiveness
let me live a life without grief not too much, not more than my share,
anyway.
Because grief would be my gift if I let you drift
explosive, toppling empires, pyramids, skyscrapers and
The shrine built out of reverence to you tumbling
the marble and gold filigree revealed as clever matchsticks
they remain unlit
But I can't help it.
Because behind those lips, those eyes is a secret I want to unlock
if it takes my entire life I grant it willingly I know you are seeking, in your heart that one, a half-remembered tune
that plays again and again, while strolling, while dreaming, while in the
midst of something else, there: that tune again. You've written letters to
this future person, this person you knew you were to meet but haven't yet.
Maybe you saw parts of me in different people: friends, a poet on stage,
across a restaurant, eyes locking. But it wasn't, because there is only
one of me and one of you. You always in an unrevealed part of yourself felt then knew: you were
different, cut from a different cloth, and while first, at times, this
created a painful distance, at other times it was the point of rejoicing,
of just revelling in your difference. The engine that drives you is
individual but no less driven. It aches, this feeling you have within, of not being with, of not
touching that, of not conversing with: that other, that one. Will you, in these days of instant everything, let this this possibility,
this fissive potential die on the vine? There's worse things I could say... than: 'you reminded me of paradise...' I think if you stuck a thermometer in my heart it would read 'molten'.
The fission of atoms would not quite reach my core temperature. I drink
water, but it is like dowsing a raging forest fire with spit, not even a
hundred firemen could put that one out, just hyperventilate and collapse. No, I'm not talking about infatuation, although that is true enough.
Everyday I am infatuated, with memory and an unrealistic devotion: to a
curve described mathematically interconnecting with lips, a smile, a kind
word. Reality tends to wake me up eventually, but I remain undeterred. I
figure work on myself and the rest will fall into place. I reach, I
stretch, I engulf myself in flames, I wrap myself with myself and wrestle
my straying glance away from the source of my infatuation. I tell
myself: 'and this too shall pass.' As they all do. That's the realist in
me. I weep for the realist. The other side, doused in spirits and
tenacity, unrealistic visions and despair of cast out angels hopes beyond
all hope that a crack in heaven's shield exists for tiny anorexic angels
to slip past. Ever hopeful, tireless, unceasing. Like the ancient
Athenians, my hope is 'meant for no rest, and to give none to others.' I
breathe, and tend to myself, I watch and...and wait some more. No shifts
but one. No thought but of the other. I count each breath, one less till
I meet: you... There's worse things I could say...
than: 'you reminded me of paradise...'I know you're out there...
seeking, in your heart that one, a half-remembered tune that plays again
and again, while strolling, while dreaming, while in the midst of
something else, there: that tune again. You've written letters to this
future person, this person you knew you were to meet but haven't yet.
Maybe you saw parts of me in different people: friends, a poet on stage,
across a restaurant, eyes locking. But it wasn't, because there is only
one of me and one of you. You always in an unrevealed part of yourself felt then knew: you were
different, cut from a different cloth, and while first, at times, this
created a painful distance, at other times it was the point of rejoicing,
of just revelling in your difference. The engine that drives you is
individual but no less driven. It aches, this feeling you have within, of not being with, of not
touching that, of not conversing with: that other, that one. Will you, in these days of instant everything, let this this possibility,
this fissive potential die on the vine? Will you then send a message
back, to me from you that you, knowing, recognizing this as that sign
that we were, perhaps, meant for each other?
Shall I break my hands, my head to remember you...or to forget? Will you
let me lay my tired head upon your bent knees to rest awhile. Will you
whisper in my ear that you love me? Will I feel your words like a
soothing wind across my soul? Can I convert you to heaven? Lead you
astray? Suckle on your luscious low hanging fruit? I tingle for your
tangle, baby...
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