Tired

A friend told me, not long ago, that he was tired. That he was ready for it to make sense, for joy to sidle up or slide away without his sideways glance.

And I am tired. I find myself unable to listen, the dark stalagmites occluding vision eventually kiss the floor.

Iron Creeps Beneath My Skin

I find iron creeps beneath my skin; the subtle pallor of winter wins against whatever limping spring I escaped. I've salted the ground beneath me, sown brittleness made from the lingering hopes kept too close.

I set the compass down; the magnetic center of the earth sure to lead me home. Instead, it spins and spins and spins and what walking and waiting I've done seems to have lead again into the dark wilding wood. And I move from a dark county into a dark country.

I lean

Watching the darkling horizon
straining for the spark
I lean into wind
grasp the crumbling walls
blood and ozone heavy on the tongue

Je ne vais pas l'accepter.

Without stirring, you grasped my hip, anchoring yourself in the rolling sea of my scarlet bed. You brought your chin to rest on my soft shoulder and the soft susurrus of your breath whispered strange poetry.

Would that I could keep that silvery lamplight resting on your face and shoulder.

Un Oceano Sconosciuto

I urge you now; don't choose the difficult one.

Don't choose the one who laughs like bells, wakes you up at midnight to read aloud from the biography of Murasaki Shikibu. Break the thrill of satisfaction that tremors in the heart every time your key clicks home in the lock, but before the sliver of golden light slips from the open door.

For you, I want comfort, the way of softness as easy as falling. It is too late, now, for ideas as sharp as flint arrows. The surprise is a small thing to trade, chose instead the one who is plain and sure. Choose simplicity, as direct as a ripe apple.

She is not for you, that one who sails a faltering ship into the unknown ocean. No, not the one whose voice growls low or honey-sweet. Not the one whose path is littered and dark, fraught with sparks of sun. The one who plans, careful, whose plans are unfurling and uncoiling like flags, rippling into the strange wind that blows you ever towards whatever's next.

There is a girl who does not unfold from a matrix so complex your searching hands might never know it. There is a girl with dreams which do not whisper and hold, a girl who speaks languages you know. Reach for her, now.

I believe in love.

I believe in the three am phone call, the pull of dread and spike of fear growing rancid in the belly. I believe in laughter, skittered across the magic of satellites finding a home with a shy smile somewhere far.

I have thrown my own soul down through love, prayed to imaginary gods for redemption by love. I have torn parts from my most hidden places; I have destroyed what is left in me that still might be worth saving. I have built up riches, my heart bursting with a treasury of love still unspent. I have traveled far but the city of lights flickering on the horizon seems to grow no closer, and this is occasionally a dark, dark country.

But still I head out along a wildering way.

Mental Math

Ask me your portion of the cheque or the tax rate in Massachusetts and you're certain to be met with a blank stare, at best. However, I breathe in and calculate complex formulae known to the ancient Sumerians, only recently rediscovered by modern mathematicians – the silent language of abomination, the science of decimation. I lock my keys in the car, but can't manage to forget the way the rain painted your hair, sparked blue in the dark halo of your eyes and face. When asked my age, I stutter and estimate, but remember the precise shape of the strange puzzle of your bones. Molecular weights, the Mohs scale of mineral hardness, they're all gone, but the burst of white and gasp that exploded as you tossed your head and laughed that night it stays and stays. My own birthday slipped past, but the wet, warm crumbling wood of the park bench beneath me is as fresh in my mind as though it had been this morning.

The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

The Orange

My feet find their way on the cold white pine, toes curling against themselves, miserly with their quickly escaping warmth. I stand in the kitchen, longing for bitterness to answer the sour tang of panic, adrenaline gone stale. But I do not like coffee and contemplating the effort of tea and sugar and milk exhausts me.

Letting hunger and nausea in turns burn a hole in my stomach, I turn my mind to the day, to the shower and drive ahead. My hair hangs in a limp fan across my shoulders, snaking around my ears and neck. I would sooner cut it off than wash it again, if only I could muster the will.

Surprising myself, I reach across the nearly empty counter to dig my nails into the peel of an orange. Pulling it close, the wild effluvium smothers me in a dark and seething nostalgia. I drown it beneath the sharp spray of juice that rips across my face as I tear the fruit in half.

It might as well be tractor wheel. It might as well be a mirror as I lift it to my lips, bleeding and supple. I gag and spit it into the sink, leaving the white pulp shivering in stainless steel.

Aching, I limp back to the warm dark cocoon of my bed, the strange scent of citrus winding behind.

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages

Nor heed my craft or art.

- Dylan Thomas