- If love is not important enough a topic for important poetry, then I just don’t care.
Because if poetry can be that arrogant, then we’ve really lost the plot.
- No, I don’t write on love “for women” as someone suggested. Love is not a women’s problem.
And do we think that men don’t love? And did anyone ever posit that a man’s poems were “for men,” even in times one might argue they were?
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
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
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 this old, maybe ancient ache better when it visits, 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 circumstances when we see differently those places in them that we fear. And those elements in us embracing those who just don’t want to know, and those who do, and we take all of that. All of it. A fantasy is not a knowing. A knowing says, this does not have to be so exciting. A languishing calls in all of us. Saying stop
by, hang out we are just talking. It is not about being so impressed, it is beyond bodies, and we are not rushing out of here either. We are 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 making something, building something beyond our outfit and our face and our credentials? I am dreaming now. But this is the future of our yearnings. Why not the freedom in doing nothing also, to stretch out in the grass for hours or lounge on the patio quietly, why not cooking and talking late into the night, where are these people?
Those who don’t mind the 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 real
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