The Beacon

For CE

It is the bare, flashing beacon, tremulously alight, whispering white into a meaningless face of a dark sky. Your voice, your nervous laugh, at supersonic speeds shimmies across my ear and smiling face. Across my shaking hands and winds its way in, in towards the white guardians of my slipping lungs. Into a dark miasma of pulsing want, into a heart overburdened by want. I feel your cool fingers grab my arm, pull it towards you. Closer, closer the heaving furnace of your loneliness pulls me. I shiver and burn, slide next to you, as you are broken, aching. My hands find their way. After all, this, at least, is familiar territory. You vomit sand, my searching hands find the sucking jointed thing of metal. It does not come without a fight, but what else do I have energy for? And the beacon winks, blinks out, and does not again burst white.

Find Me

I'm tired, I turn away from a flashing yellow sun, pulling myself down low in a blanket of down. Over my eyes, in a blank cocoon of sleep. My hair has grown long and winds around my neck. I wake again and again. The night and day seem to bleed together, I'm no longer sure when I dream of you and when longing for you seeps from my pores, soaks the bed. My voice has grown rasping and I taste metal. I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm tired. I want only clean linen and silence. Though it hasn't happened yet, I've heard it should start to fade, I should no longer wake in a small salty sea. Last night, or the night before, my heart fluttering like a wild bird, I breathed your name in and out, the shallow shudder tearing away at my throat. I curl down deep, a nautilus without a shell. I'd bury myself here and let dust and sorrow bury me until I could only be unearthed as an archaeological find.

Find me. Find me, please.

fragment

eyes deep in dark poisonous pools

she stares straight ahead as if blind

but if you speak her name,

she turns her face to you

winterwhite and ivory

your question writhes beneath you,

across the floor and as you wish,

it scatters away like a many-legged thing.

you have lost all sense of truth;

if her face is that of the crone

or your lover.

you seek and she turns her head

a crimson shadow
a hank of dark hair shudders,
her breath fecund,
a whisper resonating in your shell-like ear.
It is her only gift,
whistling and low.

Your Wasted Voice

I wake and find the past has fallen over the room like wet gray snow. I turn my head and all the sweet names you called me under your breath fly into the air to sting my eyes and rest on my lashes. Moving the comforter over, I discover the feeling of your hand in my hair has crusted icy and thick across my legs. My feet are bare and aching beneath a spare and unfailing promise of love. Have I not mourned you enough? A glacial ceiling of white and blue formed from the sharp crystals of your disingenuiously warm hands slithering across the white expanse of my back. I lie in the cool circle of your wasted voice calling, calling, calling; your fragile wrists shaking beneath the weight you pretend to bear.

Everything they said was a lie.

Everyone here is amazingly kind.

A Letter, Never Sent

This is a letter that will never be sent. This is a letter I might as well write in the sand; I might as well write it in smoke.

You will never hear my voice again.

You will never spark with a bubbling laugh and spread your arms wide to hug me, your hair scented sweetly with clove cigarettes. You will never ever listen to another song with me and consider the warm melancholy of a dark-haired boy's voice. You will never shudder with joy, digging your fingers into the grass, in the summerwhite sun. Your grief will never fall into step with mine again and we will not weep together until a rushing river runs from our tears.

You have betrayed me, and your name will never again pass my lips without a taint of blood and earth.

I hope your grave is a comfort to you.

In Praise Of

This is in praise of your fine-boned wrists

and gentle hands,

of your arms laced with blue veins

and your long beautiful neck and pointed chin.

This is in praise of the sharp bones of your hips beneath the flat of my hand.

I sigh with my lips resting on your freckled shoulder

and I pull you closer to me,

even as you sleep

the strange architecture of your back working against me.

What I Want

They say there is a secret power in naming. In fact, in many cultures, you have a secret name you do not share so that others cannot wield it's power over you.

It is also said that knowing the most secret name of things is a sort of magic, that you are able to truly own and manipulate something if only you can speak it's true name.

There are some well-meaning but confused daytime tv type of people who explain that only by naming your wish, the universe will respond. Though it might be nice to think that a blind and wise system grants your heart's desire, it's a selfish dream.

But I did make a list, two lists, in fact. What I want from the future and what I want from a partner. My heart went cold as I wrote both short lists. You see, I knew it was too much to ask. But having made the lists, I then knew what I could not live without.

And somehow, instead of the universe responding, I did. I started to seek, and to feel. And found found everything I'd dreamt of, and more.

Lost

You were the gods of our childhood. As soon as your voice shook the earth beneath us, you must have known you were also turning the hourglass. I imagine our tiny hands, the fine pink blush beneath our minute window-like fingernails. I know you looked down upon a head like an bird's egg, delicate and whole. How did you not reach out your hand to feel the soft down of our hair? There is a particular smell to a small hot child, chest heaving from the frenzied joy of running wild. Didn't you want to lean down, pick up the wandering child and whisper a sweet word into their tiny shell-like ear?

Instead, your hand seized the delicate wrist, squeezed until tears slipped from tight-shut eyes. Your rage quickened and grew along with our tiny jerking hearts and bodies. Your voice, a dangerous whisper, raised the hair on our arms and necks, or as a roar like a blind waterfall, rang in our ears for hours.

You laughed, liquid and dark, while we burned with sorrow and fear. Blazing white hot, your violence melted steel until even our hearts were soldered. We hid behind a flimsy paperboard door, tiny shoulders shaking. With time, your very name became a curse.

The Little Boy Lost

William Blake

from Songs of Innocence, 1791

“Father! father! where are you going?

O do not walk so fast.

Speak, father, speak to your little boy,

Or else I shall be lost.”

The night was dark, no father was there;

The child was wet with dew;

The mire was deep, & the child did weep,

And away the vapour flew.

The Center of the World

I remember your hands hovering
like sick satellites over my reluctant hips

I felt you flay me
night after night
imagining my suffering
would somehow draw me to you

and your monstrous magnetics
made you the gravitational
center of my world

undated, around 2002