Let These Words Be Unimportant

 

Let me whisper.  Let me bring these words to you, let them turn yellow then purple like light diffusing through polluted air.  In a sound of voice I long to hear and embrace floats near me.  Connect these words in us through this space, not by chains of past offenses identity crises and grievances.   Let them feel comforting and welcomed, not as wounds, feel like birds at dawn singing through cold air or a bell tower carillon drop notes over chaotic streets on the way home from work in the evening.  Let these words mean nothing, let them be nothing, let them exist for no indisputable purpose or explicit reason, yet not be treated as meaningless.   Let them not be crowded out with opinions, nor create such crowds.  What makes such opinions more meaningful?

What if I have no history anymore.  What if I claim nothing.  These words have tongue in them, lips, lungs, I want for them to not be pushed to sting.  Let me kiss with them.  Let me exist with you as if there were nobody else before us, and nobody to jump down our throats after.  I have slept with these words when hungry, when lonely, now let these words take company.  Let these words be a place to land, not just a springboard to and from troubles, not as an opiate either but a place to be fearlessly awake together.  Let these words be a world that’s not too smart for romance.  Enough views crowd us one after another, it’s blinding.   If we come from nowhere beyond this moment, if only by sound we could touch these screens delicate as paper, what if.

Your voice alone is wonderful to me.  Carillon notes blending and separating over rivers inside sending little messages barely heard, grow more resonant.  I long to hear beauty instead of these arguments.  Then these words will not chase you down, will not hunt you.  For truly I long for you and for no opinion.  I long to hear words exist less for the purpose of proofs, divisions, violence, information.  Thus let their intelligence here stake no claim.  Let these words be unimportant yet significant.  Be available and abundant.  Let them be valuable.

 

 

Come With Me

 

Yes I admit searching for your face in crowds afraid of what I’d see.  You came in closed the door leaned your bike against the armoire put your keys and wallet down on the dresser and stay

ed.  We listened to the same musical refrain over and over after the film credits stop

ed since you made it last

even long

er than needed that evening, years

your presence melts resentments and smile fades priorities then there’s only innocence in us.  I’ve felt long

ing and awe and dread since childhood toward everything in life and everyone I’ve loved.  This is why poetry picked me without asking.  I’d eventually tell the truth, sometimes incredibly pained and sometimes without flinching in a way that served an art.  I was less than eight when I knew I was alone.  I see her walking slow

ly

in memory, eyes locked down at the ground watching feet move mechanically, but once she stop

es to stare at a glow.  Strange.  A mesmerizing purple hue around a shadow, circling the contour of the dark form in the sidewalk – was this some prophecy for today?  Six brothers and sisters new lives pop in and out of dreams like a vague connective tissue.  Purple orchids sit in the windowsill wait

ing for water don’t need too much attention, bookshelves crammed with ideas and lyrics and pictures don’t make missing someone better or easier the exceptional courageousness it takes to care.  Beyond the selfish, superficial, convenient or practical no bar, text box, or website brought us together.  You said you noticed I always look at the poem during critique instead of up at the group, you stay

ed long enough to get to know me a little but not very deep.  My most entitled and arrogant phase featured this loss although I couldn’t explain how much loneliness this arose from and alienation.  I still can’t keep up with demands in all directions by myself but who really can or how long

can we pretend.  Later on we leave after a short time.  Except in rare circumstance we see differently those places in them we fear and elements in us embracing those who don’t want to know and those who do and we take all of that, all of it.  What kind of knowing is this fantasy saying this does not have to be so exciting.  Saying stop

by hang out in the studio as you draw for a time or whatever because it is not about your body or not your body only, not about exotic trips or going out impressed or impressive and we are not rushing out of here either, not on our way home because there’s nowhere really to be, nowhere like here at least because why not with you, why not here mixing paint testing glue for collage building something any kind of creativity beyond our outfit and face and the lighting or even the freedom in doing nothing also, stretch out in the grass for hours or lounge on the patio quietly, why not cooking pasta and talking late into the night, where are these people?  Those who don’t care about time?  This does not have to be so exciting it just has to be true.  I want to go find them and set down my keys on the table, turn off the internet and TV, to tell me their stories or notice the majestic shape of a tree reach in every direction for the sun to form such pleasing angles, am I crazy?  I am angry because there’s no antidote to the recklessness of others.  To the tyranny of business, being busy and making things happen.  There’s no pathology in craving more significance to our company — is it so dangerous to desire this today, feigning instead to resist real feeling as a means of self-improvement?  I have feel

ings.  That need not be cute or palatable.  Take no hallucination of ideals, that aesthetic is so tired.  The end is coming soon, dears.  Come by my love because fifty thousand options, fifty million options are not you, because fifty billion other options are still not who you are and because it does not matter about tomorrow, even now doesn’t matter because there’s nothing to do.  In truth, there is really nothing.

Drink tea with me, no pool, no bar, no fancy food, no nice clothes, no entertainment.  I’m up the mountain pass now sipping the tea, bundled in wool, iron and wood and smoke billowing from fires in the freezing cold, there is no service here, and everything is free.  I long for you here but will find somebody to come with me, somebody along the way who wonders what it would be like to set their keys down anywhere, anywhere, and love those you find.  I create no words, no art to sell truly, I make piece after piece for those I hold and a place for us to exist in is all the same affair I work for, beyond the obvious yet not beyond those held in the middle of the darkness because the only thing we have that’s free in this world is each other and we know it.  This is why poetry is not endangered.  Is this not the belief anymore, here – what happened?  Nothing is just only ours.  Everything is for each other.  This is one truth of mine among many.  I wish it weren’t so sometimes.  I’d like to need no one, but this contemporary promise is a false idol of sorts.  I unpeel bananas

in the kitchen for breakfast, oranges

in the afternoon and adore them in solitude.  I don’t really adore french fries, though they taste good —  body is treated like this too.  It matters how you see

things, when we unpeel and also when we don’t.  I’m still being with them, still in love irresponsibly on paper and on screens and whatever and it’s great.  For us cyc

ling colors through bay windows, stay

ing up all night.  I come here to write for tears of long

ing to watch icy blue rivers in us melt

from ancient glaciers — they need a job.  In this moment as with most that matter nobody knows this about me and it’s okay.  I am the same as everyone.  You who recognize this thing.

You, taking heart

 

 

 

Many Hours Later

 

 

About as elemental a design plan as it gets…

 

 

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but enough to turn into these

 

 

 

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and this more simplified idea to play with some more,

 

 

 

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yet like many sketches, that first cluster of lines still intrigues me on its own…

 

 

 

 

 

 

7″ x 8.5″, black paper on bristol

 

 

 

 

 

Just bring booze & blow me off

 

Stop being insane.  Claiming to be an artist doesn’t make you an artist.  Wanna come over and sit on my couch?  Bring me some booze.  Don’t be stupid, bring booze here and let’s figure out what’s up with you

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You’re a joke

 

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I

 

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HATE

 

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YOUR

 

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“ART”

 

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Bring bass and bulleit and you can suck my cock on it!!! my cock? There might be a hole in the back of your head when I’m done

Look bring good booze.  My demon is angry and I want to play the guitar

So suck it the fuck up and obey

Listen lady bring bulleit and a gun

Booze or whatever

I got a song for you

Look I need booze and shit now

Booze and apathy.  I know you got one you ugly bitch respond.  Unless you like it real lolololol

I got you a new bulb that I think will fit the lamp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I think I’m just gonna delete your shit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Version 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If You Lie To Yourself Let It Be to Good Purpose

I wake up to recognize my room, my bed, myself.  The ceiling, the highboy with drawers still open, piles of stuff everywhere for lack of time and energy per high season at work.  Nobody to judge me for this mess, I’ll let it wait for a day off.  My body feels good moving and stretching from biking and lifting two days ago.

Something inside me wants to cry, terribly, but I don’t even feel like going there.  I’d better get to the cafe early, not worry about how I look, what I’m wearing.  Just get a cup of coffee.  When I get there I’ll feel.  I know I need to write.  To put the feeling into action.

I lie in bed a bit longer not wanting to get up and face the day.  I miss you, I miss you.  Do I?  I don’t know.  I want you.  Do I?  I’m so lonely.  I think about my brothers who seem to have each other.  My other siblings too, who also share both their same parents.

I probably think of you almost every day, but don’t call because why would I do that to myself.  When was the last time I saw my friends?

I think about my job and everything I’ve been putting into it, get a text message and lately it’s like I can’t do anything right there.

I want to get on the bike later but accept that my body’s maxed out today.

I get up and walk to the bathroom.  In the mirror my eyes look tired from the six nights a week racing around work.  Yet still bright from all the exercise and the sun during the days.  I’m hungry, starving yet can’t imagine what I’d be willing to stomach this morning.

I could handle holding you in bed, I could even imagine sitting in your lap and kissing you, but then I might have to be somebody for you, somebody you want.

I think about my writing and how much I want it.  I think about how afraid I am to do it.  I think about the pictures I want to make this winter.  The photographs and the mosaics and the painted collages.  The clothes I want to learn to sew for myself sometime, done with feeling frustrated at my own shape instead of at average sizing.

I think about the seagulls I want to watch at the beach.

The languages I want to study.

Of all the things I’ve hoped for myself, I rarely think anymore about actually putting in effort to seek a partner.  What I’ve got left in me to give, I don’t want anything to ruin it.  Not another judgment, not another comparison, no disappointments.

I will no longer need to be anybody else’s dream.  Nobody will need me to be larger than they feel in order for them to love me.  Nobody will expect me to walk on their stage either.  Nobody will fit me in or drop me at their convenience.

Today I will just be a random woman at the cafe drinking coffee.  I am small and I like it.  I want to want myself more than I want anybody else to, anyway.  I lie to myself but this lie is like medicine.

It’s okay for me to have some tears under my sunglasses feeling lonely, missing you, and others who came and went.  I choose it.  I choose this.

It’s really been this way since childhood; I just never believed it was all that significant.  I didn’t want to include it, didn’t even want to know.  I didn’t have to.  I was in my twenties and I got all the love I wanted.  Love was desire.

All the love I believed I wanted. My mind wanders into its broken second language which sometimes feels like a safer, more comforting place to be.  Chaque nuit je rêve seule, chaque matin je me lève seule. Sans personne, je me sens presque comme une étrangère tous les jours.

Le désir, il vaux mieux l’éviter.  Il m’a faite sentir si invisible.

I lie to myself but this lie is like medicine.

 

 

 

Freedom In Constraint

You have said something about them, you have tossed pennies into the fountain in far off fantasies in your mind after all they’ve done, you have gone to pick up your image in its water somewhere beyond sensible and wasted yourself incautiously dipping your hands into its greenish mud puddle feeling the mossy bottom and the stone underneath it, wasted yourself watching a kaleidoscope of colors swirl around your wrists, watching green diamonds and blue gems morph to purple and magenta on the water’s oily surface in the angles of sun around tanned arms and through reflective fingers, and you’ve fallen behind the others, picked up incomprehensible images from exotic pools to sink yourself into and create yourself from, not borrowed from your own origins as you should, not done what you’ve been called upon by those who brought you, instead you have pulled out a starfish inedible and invasive multicolored and textured and other vain nonfunctional fascinations.

You have picked flowers all day.  Rearranged letters of the alphabet all day.  A candle left burning in your room to follow the mazes of wax and the loops of smoke taking your attention, then the fan left on for a clearing.  Trails of warm lemon juice cleansing negligence, you have sprayed perfume yet left no scent.  It was you who did the leaving, you who did this to them, you whose body is too soft to resist the most simple attraction and mind not soft enough to yield controls, you who betrayed trust by telling stories, who let yourself be eaten by worms of curiosity, you who gulp foolishly not more than banal beauties and ugliness.  To squander yourself insulting those who brought you, you who created universes invalid from real pennies and distorted realities from nebulous transparencies.  You are the kind who survives on chocolates.

You hearing them rehearsing, how could you do this to us?  How could you do this to you also.  You have said something, you have seen something.  Stuff that doesn’t matter, waste like this.  Crap like this, let it go and the box flies open.  Make your mistakes for they call them mistakes not choices.  Let it all out of the trap, let the mystery of this trap triumph if you absolutely must play so rough but don’t ask us to look, don’t ask us to see, don’t ask us to hear, don’t ask us to act.

Heirlooms are survival too.  You are too green for us, too blue, too purple, too much for us.  You haven’t done enough, organized enough this territory, you will never catch up.  You do this to us, do this to yourself, look.  Listen.  You’ll see, you’ll hear this.  You do this.  To us, to us.

You.

 

 

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You

 

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