Then love me

Did you not know me?
Then how could you love me
Who was I that you loved without knowing who I was
Without knowing what I was
Was it because I knew not myself
Not who or what or why I was
Not when or how or if I was
And so to love what is not is possible
Open, undefined, unconfined
Is all that is not
Take it and let it go
It is the sustenance of life

the longings of my life

All the longings of my life
reflected on your body
When did you leave me?
You would say I left you.
When did my life turn into one. long, run-on sentence?
Let me see your body and pieces of your life together.

Your life. A smile deceitful.
Standing next to Jane.
No love.
Can I see it?
No.

I see what you desire of the camera.
Appearances intact.
Of life divine.
You languish on the limbs of barren branches.
Trees devoid of life.
Humbled.
Waiting.

I wait.
I have always waited.
In the back roads of your life.
A movement, a shadow.
My ghosts have haunted
Threads of time
Behind the eye I move
Between the cones and rods
A darkness clouds the vision
A faltering step and all is lost.

Do you wonder what control is
What it is to lose it?
Control is the conformity you align yourself to
The role your family plays in contorting you
Their vision.

Would I be a murderer just to find myself
Allow a luxury of self-indulgence?
A surfeit of needs exploding?

Revenge.
Behind the eyes it is shuttered.
Oh God, how it festered.
Without the light it rots
A mold, exquisite in its putrid transformation
A pus, of green and yellow
An ochre.
The colors of earth in shades of abomination.

Sing to me
Sing of death, of threads cut
Knots loosed
A tune off-key
Song of God
Son of God
God willing
God able
Oh, sing of God
And through God of life
Extended
Eternal
And through God of death
Everlasting
And through God of love
Requited.

Love
To touch
My mind to yours
My body desires.

Where am I as I fall asleep, in God where am I
In tears that are not wet
In grief that is not borne
In terror of my life.
In nothingness.

Love, beloved

It is about love. To wake up and feel warm, a warmth only bestowed by a beloved, the one who lies next to you, though still asleep as you leave that bed, that haven in the night, that place of repose, of comfort and consolation, of quiet both mental and physical, to beat the morning light, to challenge the day anew.

It is love you want, I want. More easily given when gotten, bestowed on the bestower, revealed to the revealer. Love me and I will surely love you. How I can, how can I not help but love you, creature of my soul, whisperer of my dreams, husband of my heart. There is no band upon my finger that could bind as hard as that which lies within me. Is that not the greatest test? Can a sheaf of paper have locks and keys more quick than my soul? A soul, a heart, a dream, all you are to me and I to you, all that life is meant to be, cannot be shoved into a drawer, confined, relegated to be filed away, meaningless if its signers have given up, acquired disdain and disregard. If the paper has more import than the love it meant to bond.

the door that opens and breathes

And so another week is past and with it comes a return to a way of life that was quickly diminishing in reality. Adaptability is so deceiving. A species that can close the mind to pain as well as pleasure, can start from dawn as though none else existed. Who am I that I can toss off one life easily, cavalierly falling into step with another, chasing ghosts and dreams simultaneously? Would I give up everything to be warm? I would. The pain of cold lives in my mind, the door that opens and breathes in the morning air, a chill of October reminiscent of November. Long winters looming, with empty beds and firewood to be hauled. Can I remember being a child? I have dreams of fulfillment, of a life rich with love and meaning. Tears well when I wake. Who is this person whose life in sleep is sweeter than the life awake? Oh to reenter one’s dreams, to live there forever. Are there others of my ilk?

What we do is superfluous, destructive to wellbeing, beyond a genetic need of survival, a crime of humanity, a crime of environment, a crime of God. Belief is unnecessary to comprehend the crimes committed. You understand yourself as criminal, conspirator, rapist and raptor, devourer and devoured.

Flesh laid open, a feast fetid with generations of flys, maggots, larvae, bones of the dead reaching to draw you nearer. Bones of the living, rotten flesh, your nightmare borne of reality. Eaten even as you live, segments wasting away before eyes laid hollow from multitudes of lies, deceit, denials.

How do we fill our lives, and as we fill them, do we deny the existence of others unable to participate in the frivolity of our existence? Even this, even now, even I conspire to forget. I forge an existence made of vapors. Thus I render myself untouchable. But I am made of this place and am dependent for my needs. Were I to fly free, where would I go? Were I to be free, what would I do? Were I to understand that I am already free, would anything change? How am I so useless? Is it by comparison? Can I say, “I did not do that, therefore I am nothing?” Or, “Look at his/her accomplishments—they are not mine—I am nothing.” What I have done, what I can do, I see as being selfish and useless, of no consequence to a world peopled with pain, parented by hunger, housed by the homeless. I am the rain that breaks the dam, flooding the lands, being cursed by the righteous and the damned. I am the mid-day sun, parching the field destroying the crops, killing the inhabitants as I consume the earth. Where is my beauty, the smile of my youth? Buried. Buried six feet, with earth and stone upon my grave, unknown in death as in life. Why do you visit him? You have loved him as did I. But I know it is pointless, this ritual of burial, this memorial of headstone. And so what first I did not do out of confusion, I now will not do out of grief and guilt.

My dearest Larry,

When have I ever said my dearest Larry.

If I have not, it has has been my misfortune, for you are, indeed, a person who makes my heart race, my mind do double takes, my sense of reality check itself at the door, along with a great deal of self-recrimination, though God knows, it is not my conscience that has been challenged.

Love, talk of love, and one talks of a life of longing, a list of desires, a looking for a hero, a stanchion in a world of crumbling realities, a heart in search of itself, a physicality created by mind, body and soul, of human warmth, both mental and physical, and trust, the ultimate in human recognition, of lasting connection, of one’s desires so intimately entwined with another’s that you would will your life to their’s.

And so with all the love, and hope, and warmth and human understanding, the desires of years past, the thoughts of time not taken, of life lost and lust surrendered, such that can be relinquished is done willingly, with expectation that this will not be cast asunder, abused or discarded.

It was a day of fleeting remembrances, of flights of fancy, of leaps of love, of leaves of longing, and in its wake, a hope that another is to be.

Twilight in the Mind of a Dog

Home again
Home all the time
Without home nothing matters
Take me home
Don’t fence me in
But don’t leave me out in the cold
I need familiarity, longevity, consistency
You can’t imagine what happens inside me when you leave
I wait
And wait, and wait
A battle of thoughts, of fear and insecurity
Return to me
Now
On my knees
Begging
I do love you

dog play

Playing fast

Playing fast.  Playing first.  Playing all day long, I think.  Playing hard, having fun.  Trouble is I’m on the run.  Running here, running there, catch me fast, I’m everywhere!

My Dog

My dog, so soft and sweet as he sleeps
Quiet now before the dawn.
Waiting.
The potential of a new day will fill his heart, his loins.
Soon he wakes
To the light he looks
His knowledge of the greatness is infinite.
Can I be him just one day?
Let us exchange places, just one day
How would it be to know wonder, to look forward to everything.
All expectation
That is he
Not me.

fatal power

Love is a fatal power
Swallowing whole your immortal soul
Love is an infinite world
Leading you through the garden’s gate
Love is a grandiose game
Playing the strings of your heart
Love is your one true friend
Lighting the depths of your fire

higher and higher

There was a young dog named Squire, who longed to climb higher and higher
Alone on a ledge, he jumped past the hedge
And started to take a real flyer.
Then out of the blue, his mother came to
Calling “Dinner is on the fire,”
and “life is too short for you to abort.”

distance

See double. See triple. What else do you see. Who is there for you. See no one. Or only one. The one is a ghost, vision of your past, seamlessly entering your mind, blurring reality with images of before. Before you were alone. Before you were without. Before you stopped living.
Do you remember when you were alive? Flesh and blood still warm, mind coherent, thriving. Now cold, moribund. Only the motions of the living are there, packaged neatly to cheat others into accepting your continuance, an existence, empty, useless.
A fiction. As you pursue words, the ghost takes shape, reaches out to embrace, and vanishes with the dawn winds. A fiction. You wait for night once more to conjure your past, form its body, grasp its heart. You remember. The pain of your life, the pain of your love. You remember. The thrill of your life, the thrill of your love. You remember. The awkwardness of your life, the awkwardness of your love. You remember.
Time dulls the tortures you endure. Your self-inflicted pain. Like needles in your arm. The pain becomes a source of pleasure, a place where you can go, safe, away from life. Indulge yourself in the pain, let it be your reality, where no one else can enter. Yours alone to soak up, to enervate you, to anchor you. It will keep others distant. It will exist for you alone.

It tears

It tears your heart and soul.
Where it comes from, the depths of your soul, past your own soul, the grief, the loss, incomprehensible.
Take your hand, reach deep within you, pull it out, wrench the pain, all blood, wrench it from you. Life doesn’t exist within loss.
Possible, but impossible with you, to pick up the pieces, choke it back, choke it up, choke on it.
Wails. Unending. The pitch, filled with spirits from a millennium.

woos the maid

My Larry moves the earth and sky
To wit, I really don’t know why
But rest assured
And be on guard
Tis he that truly woos the maid
Till morning star begins to fade

upon the beach

His warm breath
warm body
I inhale his scent
I would know him
anywhere.
He is the same
as the other.
An incarnation.
They were one
and I loved them both.
When he is gone
I will be no longer.
What is left
when the vehicle of life
is gone.
An empty shell
washed up upon the beach.

mama wanna know

Mama wanna know what you’re doin’
Even after she get outta your sight
Mama wanna know where you been
Even after she down on her knees
Mama wanna know who are
Even after she sees you been gone
Gone to the Lord
God above
Mama gonna weep them tears
Even she ain’t proud no more

breath

Over, oeuvre

Lost
Lost love
Lost names
Larry
Sam
Bob
and Bob again
Who are you?
You have no name
No name?
A shame
Without a name you are forced to roam
No home?
To Rome you say, the avenues of lost souls
Lost gods
Lost minds
Mindless
Darkness
Lightness
Begin again
Not lost
Just starting over

of feeling

Pain. Makes you aware. Dulls other pain. Nothing serious. Just pain. Can’t deal with it, introduce pain. More pain each time. Nothing serious. Just tolerance. Intolerance in the rest of life? Introduce pain, a little more each time, until it fills the void. But the void grows, is never filled. So pain dulls, just like everything pain was supposed to divert you from. And the next step?
To end pain.
Devoid of pain, of feeling, of life, limb, love, longing, languishing on the laments of listless lovers.
A fine line, a thin line, a dotted line, the end of the line, to stand in line for what? For whom? For how long?
Till longing leaves and winter covers the barren trees with snow so thick your mind is blanketed in endless whiteness, a void unto itself, you move without thought, involuntary action, unquestioned, unquestioningly, automaton, molded by others, you are the person others wanted. You are not yourself.

are you not

Cuddle. Hug. Cry on a shoulder. Repent. Say you’re sorry. Admit foolishness. Admit stupidity. Admit ignorance. Admit uselessness. Defenselessness. Loneliness. Sheer terror at living. Neediness. Needing someone. Never ending feeling of isolation. Fear of contact. Fear of friendship. Fear of existence. Paranoia, sadness. Missing. Missing what. Missing missing. Wishing you were missing and could never be found. Hiding. Hiding without ever being found. Found out. Who you are not. Not who you are. Why you are not who others think you are. When you don’t even know who you are but that you are not the person others think you are.

swept away

Sky above, earth below
Let a river of thoughts flow
Earth above, sky below
Pretty soon you’ve got to go
But not today and not tomorrow
Down that long river of sorrow.

before sleep

Back from a six-hour shift as an EMT in training, after reading, eating, taking care of the dog, I realize there is nothing I care to do. Not listen to the radio, or a CD, or watch anything, nor read any one of a half-dozen books I’ve started. There is simply this void, looming, hovering, descending, smothering. Ineffectiveness and social alienation. Sleep and forgetfulness.

a new day

A new day

He wakes

He looks.

He eats

He sleeps.

He is a dog

Shadows

Savor their warm, sweet breath.
Let not your mind imagine lost happiness.
The dawning of guilt.
Stalked by shadows.

Racing to you. So fast time is nonexistent. So slow I fear I will never reach you. So I am here, a temporary place of rest, biding the eternities till you are in sight.
Willingly I continue, past fields of flowers, pastures of grass, Dresden in ruins, London in flames, Jews’ bones scattered across the earth, gypsies impaled on the cross, Blacks eviscerated. I turn my head.

gnihtoN

Nothing. Into nothing. Out of nothing. See nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, touch nothing and nothing touches you. Is this death? But I am awake. Not alive. Are we still talking nothing? Nothing is knowing, knowing all or nothing. A meaningful cliché. You know it all, I nothing.
I know not who I am nor why I am nor where I am nor by the grace of God I am. Nothing. The word encompasses everything. And nothing. Did you wake to read this as I write?
It is nothing.