Miserable and weakened, or, worse yet,
Alive with those things we won’t speak of.
These losses aren’t for me or for you;
They’re what we cope with. What can you do?
Will you step back or submit?
Will you tell me more about your guilt?
I smile because it works; I smile in spite of all of this.
I smile because, while it can’t always be right
It’s better that than losing this fight…
This is for you, mother.
“Farewell the glistening mouth
the trouble with silence
the harmless pleasures
and the ones that come to harm…”
-Deborah Landau, The Last Usable Hour.
To try and negate my words with care;
Care you chose not to share.
I’m not yours. Or his. Or anyone’s.
I’m Quiet because I don’t want to hurt you any more.
Let me go…
“Passion and reason are only the transformation of the mind toward the better or the worse.”
-Seneca the Younger.
Talk to me. Tell me, father, what I must know.
Tell me how to plant the seeds we know could grow.
Tell me, now, why, you’re more a coward and less toward.
Tell me, what’s worse: me getting fucked, or your verses?
I am what you wanted. I slide through phrases.
I am your theme, and how fitting!
Your asylum isn’t built, yet…
But when it is, I will let go…
I’m not yours, or anyone’s.
I’m the greater gravity you pull unto yourself.
I’ve fallen, sure, only to amuse you;
Give you wealth; I’m everything you want…
Yet draw lines where you can’t.
I am the one who says, sprays, all of this.
I’m done making borderlines;
I’m not yours to punish.
I’ve mingled here, worse and worse…
If so, are my words less than terse?
“Are we here? Are we elsewhere? Are we in some fictional space dreamed by men? Might the tears and the pain only be ingredients for a more palatable journey that goes nowhere, before it sinks into the oblivion of sleep?”
-Francois Cheng, The River Below.
These feel like lies, accepted, and denied
the scrutiny you hold. Don’t deny me…
I am silent because of you–those moments
when you drew me into sleep; when you fucked me.
Now, let’s go: I’m the tears and pain you sought for;
I’m the quiet kind of one, you bastard.
You’ll sink; sorry for being so coarse.
It’s all an act, right?
Then I’ll show you no remorse.
“A woman’s ammunition is chiefly psychic and aesthetic: love & lookings.”
Oh, my love, let
me talk about love.
Let me inscribe love
on you, love. Let
me love you purely:
I can love with
the purity you love.
Could you love me?
Let’s see, now, love…
Let me go, love.
So, I nominate:
The blood-moon on my left while the ships pass;
a negligee, on a warm, windy night.
Eating a rich dessert after swimming:
strawberry shortcake, with whipped creme.
How your attention calms me like Lapsang
Souchong tea, makes me pine and swim for you.
Forcing myself to smile when I’m alone…
Counting my breaths when I am not.
Knowing that I am not alone, Father.
“I assure you, most solemnly, I tell you unless a wo/man is born of water and the spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God.”
“That we who refrain from sin by self-denial,
may be afflicted in time
rather than condemned to eternal punishment…”
-Litany of Interior Peace
“Forward pressure refers to the inclination to close the gap, to press forward until contact has been established. In both contexts, forward pressure requires an acute awareness of one’s own center and of the opponent’s…It is forward pressure that forces something to happen.”
-James Cravens, Principles of Chinese Boxing
I open this with a heavy heart for a person I never “met.” Oh, Leonard Nimoy, you’ve taught millions about compartmentalizing: