In the half light of the new moon the canal is an oil slick, rippleless and unmoving – pointless. A blanket of mist clings to its surface and swirls. And it is only when I gently push back her hair to kiss the cheek just below the eye that I notice how cold she is. I button up her coat and pull the collar up around the ears. Even in stout shoes my feet are cold in the wet grass.
I am struck by the stars’ reflection in the black mirror of the water’s surface, something I’d not considered possible before. But so many things that did not seem possible then, before, must be possible now, after. Whatever ‘was’ then, is ‘not’ now.
Her eyes are closed, and I touch the lids gently and move my finger in a tight circle, the skin stretching and rucking under my fingertip. I kiss her again, this time on the forehead. A few stray hairs stick to my lip so that when I pull back they catch and are drawn back with my retreat. I break the connection with a chop of my hand and brush them back into place. I hear a vehicle on the distant road. I know it is time.
I take her to the edge and, standing behind her, my arms reaching around to her chest, lower her feet into the water. When the water level is at her knees, I release my grip and she slips quietly, perfectly, cutting through the blackness. Then she is gone with a comical plop as the head disappears and ripples dash across to the other bank. Now I realise that I should have wieghed her down, she is coming back. I think of Millais’ Ophelia and turn to search for stones.
Blog
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Grand Union
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Hermetic
If I cannot truly understand what is in my heart, how can I expect anyone else to? I believe I may become a recluse and deny anyone access to my presence, much less my heart. I don’t like secrets so much, but feel that my life and those around me are shrouded in them. I have a few good friends with which there is transparency between us. Maybe that is all I can ask for, but ultimately it all will need to be tossed out. Ultimately I will live in my basement with just the one window for light and I will grow pale and old there.
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The masculine
We are trying to create something, me and you two boys, that is truly masculine for us. That is our mantra. Something that is part of our fathers, but more of us – the way we see things. This is our project. Let’s make it ours. Let’s make it great.
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No Compromise
Here it is. Just like this and we can say it is as we want it to be, but it really is like this. We can hold out. We have it within us that we can do this, and we are not too old, and I will do it too. She’s so pretty, and they have all, already, been. It’s no better or worse, but I don’t need to settle. I wish my rough friends were here drinking whiskey with me tonight, except for now I am watching guys drinking whiskey and enjoying their friends, and it takes me back home. Where are you? And, why don’t you call? And, can we do it all again sometime soon, in St. Louis, or parts further to the southeast? I think it will all make it back to me one day… all of the ways they move.
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Heartworn Highways
God, JT, I put on finally tonight and they are so us, like we were all once, and that’s the scary and comforting thing.
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Taxidermy
All around me are the vegetable eaters,
the people so full of the sunshine they eat,
and so sunny with radiant lips.
But above here, in that not-so-lovely place,
is all fluorescent glow.
And further below are the meat eaters,
gnashers, and blood drinkers, and
in the end will be the gravediggers,
and grave-robbers, and my toes will become relics
for some gothic basement cause.
Today moves me through
this city again, and the pace has
picked up. I try to block out
all of the city sounds with my own
sounds, until those sound becomes familiar,
and all the worries of the Arab women
asking for help, and directions to the mosque,
fit into a chant that soon boils over me,
until a familiar voice and song –
my voice, my song – penetrates the hum.
Perhaps this is the way it should have
been from the beginning, me and my song.
I walk away at the first sign of showdown,
I want no battles with friends or enemies.
I can sing to myself at night, I can
sing myself to sleep, as I begin to float.
But then the men in the other room
speak like my father, ‘If you get that black
on your hands, you can’t get it off.” And
I think I have something to tell you,
but a far off distant voice,
from a forgotten time has
paralyzed all of that now,
and they strap this sailor to the mast,
and I can feel the blood slowly depart. -
Why Tuesday?
Why Tuesday?
When my brain has been so settled as of late,
and the organ grinder has stopped,
and the ladies on the corner are
making up names for the people that pass by.
Why Tuesday?
When it could be Wednesday and
we could now be half way there,
whatever ‘there’ means.
Why Tuesday?
When my heart has tried to rejoice
so much lately with hope
and the weeds don’t grow so quickly.
Why Tuesday?
When tomorrow would be a better time
and I could figure a way for
you and me to rhyme.
Why Tuesday?
When, on a Saturday, we could
spend the day eating ice cream
and, very possibly, ‘making love?’
Why Tuesday?
When any other day would do
and today is Tuesday, and so,
Why Tuesday? -
Ire
I don’t know, but I am getting mad as hell today that I seem to not be able, or rather it is not allowed, to feel anything fully. If I want to have any sort of pure emotion I have to start asking myself if this is the right thing for me, how is this going to affect me, how will it affect my therapy progress. I know it is my tendencies that have gotten me into the state I am in, but I really want to be able to just feel something raw and pure and unadulterated and unanalyzed. I don’t know if that is even possible, but I would like to try. I really would.
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‘s Delight
Somewhere over the rainbow
my chronic fidgetiness
is slowly killing itself.
Something inside is
taking back everything
I ever said to you,
the bad, the good and even
the things neither of us remember.
Somewhere I waited by a
telephone too long for
a call to keep me
from breaking water.
I birthed too many panics.
I sounded the horns at the
first pain of the head pushing
through the pelvis.
I am birthing no more babies.
I am fathering no more miracles.
You will never
even read this.
It will burn before
the end of the day.
In town, this city,
except for a light breeze,
seems to stand still, or
at most just slight motions.
The city spirals into me
as the birds sit quietly in trees,
and the cars pull to the curb,
and my head stops aching for once.
And further through me,
the palpitations become manageable,
even my toes groan
as they finally stretch.
The sun is going down on the city.
It has been a labor day.
And the sky turns red,
and this once-pregnant sailor
prepares, at last,
to set sail.
Was playing: Your Ex-Lover Is Dead byStars -
Falling weather
It was a little over a year ago now, after finishing work I headed up through South Carolina to Spartanburg, on my way, the next day, to North Carolina and home for the holidays. I drive into Sparkle and directly to a party where G is already, and there’s time for drinks and then there is time for talking with her friends and then there is back home and to bed and all. But during that party there was a moment outside having a cigarette when I noticed that standing out from the moon, a good distance out, was a light ring. My grandfather had once explained to me that this meant “falling weather” was ahead. That was the Christmas party right before I would get the offer of an engagement ring that was also ill-self-advised.
Tonight I was out to a party for a while with CG and then back home I tried to arrange a phone call with St. Louis, but that wasn’t happening, with the time change and all, and then there was a ring on the phone from T. The first one with him saying to someone else, “I am not an officer,” and then telling me he would call back. The second was, “I am drunk and at the Winchester and hitting on women.” I decided to head down as the aforementioned phone call with the midwest had not happened and I was curious as to seeing the scene.