Different people in different times

You’d stay silent, just holding my hand, and I believe it
But would you save the girl with the mustache
Would you be the golden child with bright clear eyes and a careless smile
The teacher that jumped on desks
Or the soccer coach intern

Would you love goldilocks in her short skirt as she holds her binder and leans against the locker
Would you dance with the woman in sleek silk dress
Would you have a bowtie on
Would you go outside and raise your arms at the falling snow flurries
And try to taste it with your tongue out in hysteria

Would you play music strumming out of your heart
And stay quiet with just the simple tune

Would you write it all in a diary
And throw it in the ocean; waiting for someone to find it

Would you turn around
And hallucinate at the sight of the lights before you
And feel like you did when you once did pot
That claimed your energy; you claimed
Are you still on that ledge, walking, down construction sites
Atop New York City
The man with a bowtie on

Or would you jump
In front of a street crowd and start dancing

‘Cause you’re just that bright eyed kid at heart
Who can’t sit still

And needs his candy, and toys, and now women
Women women
Full to grasp, in his hands
As he holds her buttocks over her silk dress
And he has a bowtie on
While they dance
Nose to nose

Does he tell her he loves her?
Does he caress her brown hair?
Did the lights shine down on them
At the school dance?
The old music plays
And she gets it, just like his heart does

Maybe they’re the same

Red

When the song looms on a repeat tune; the kind that gently hops around the parameter of your heart, so does the aura of him. Red; the color of the show. The essence of time. The feelings at hand.
Raw, the smell of meat. His flesh underneath. His open words… wounds.
He’s on the highest shelf, never to be let go. It’s only when fate’s been absurd, for things like these.
Fresh, his words forever and ever more.
Impervious, the surface where the heart bleeds and tries to get into.
Red, on the palm of the hands, with the feel of his head.

2020/05/25

Wallflower

Molecules work against you, or for you, to present themselves in ways that allows the decoding of their atomic structure
in the form of realities that exist before your eyes
during a smooth ride in bicycle against autumn air
and collide with your thoughts
to take you back to being a desperate wallflower in your middle school dance
wondering who’s the love of your life
outside of this room full of boys; some of them druggies, and most of them unnoticeable
the world awaits outside where there’s something
~just around the riverbend~
but in the meanwhile, ’tis the life of a wallflower
saving herself to tie in with thorns and roses over a mad man’s castle
he lives inside, like the beast awaiting beauty
somewhere unknown I watch him as a rose does
still and beautiful
so I chose to be a plant instead
If I can watch him, and be surrounded by his manliness
I open and flourish like in spring time
and send him my scent from the window
when he looks over
I hold against the outside walls so that he wouldn’t see me
because I’d be petrified if he only knew how vulnerable I really was
those are the types of tears that flowers cry
amid their dewy petals
but he comes over and inhales its fragrance
and feels this never-ending love story,
staring at the flower
who couldn’t show herself in the form he desires
oh this complex love
it doesn’t end there
it began in various times in various forms in one’s life
feeling like a wallflower at the school dance is just one of them

Take me

It’s only when I’m a bundle of nerves
that I laugh with my heart’s content
and worry, like I’m stuck in some past… somewhere in between mixed realities…
the sweet surrender of colors that mimic the faint tints of my heart
and echoes of music where the source can’t be found
These moments twirl me back into a teenager
whose eyes glowed, like they do now
wondering what life is and where it’ll go
opening the doors to an outside world, slowly, carefully
letting it all come in like swirling fall leaves in foreign colors of maple syrup, yellow gold, and orange pumpkins
amid glimmering sunlight in the distance
with my hair long,
I feel like a fairy princess
wondering who will love me as I am
with smooth powder on my skin
and heart, so easy to hold onto one’s hands
and clench it
doe eyed wonder
the miracle of life in this tinted sad delight
turning and turning, like a maiden in paradise
completely open
completely impressionable
take me

Rewind

He tried to talk to me near the big willow tree, where there was a metal chair out in the open to be seated. By no one.
Of course he looked there
instead of at me.
When he did briefly look at me, he asked whether that chair area looked like a sacrificial point.
I laughed because I knew he was going to say that.
I didn’t say anything else, but the light against my iris gave away this unearthly feeling.
He paused and looked at me, questioning.
He sensed that I knew all the answers
and that I couldn’t tell him, that I did.
We stayed by the river near the willow tree that night. The warm wind would blow at my hair at times while he held onto his can of beer.

We stayed quiet for some time
while the universe did it’s job to align a future for us
as a couple
for as long as this life existed.

Filled

I stopped talking
I stopped thinking; filled with the rain of you
pouring out of myself
I stopped wanting
while getting everything I wanted
and then wanting some more
like all the spaces needing to be filled
all the air particles needing to be touched, and turned
the entire world needing to be touched
gripped by my hands and felt
because you encompass it

Free love

Echoes of your love
hits the surrounding walls
and travels like the speed of sound
a winding path that never stops
where we’re racing next to each other
looking at each other
instantaneous energy, infinite surge
the ability to soar like animals with wings
we turn into superheroes
my abilities, unlocked with your touch
there’s nothing ever stopping me now

Like a goofy boy

Like a goofy boy you smile helplessly
your head tilted back, and your slightly uneven teeth spread about
the sun rays are spinning while the world is spinning while you might be spinning
who knows, everything is a moment; an euphoric joy that one cannot conceive
Your laugh might be the only sound out there
in a space full of green trees and shrubs that exist, but only visually
that cannot be touched
whether this is joy or madness
or both, or none, or in between
it cannot be identified
Your joy, so real, so vibrant
right now

smiling

Letter to Anais from Henry

August 14, 1932

Anais:

Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can’t dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can’t see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can’t picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one’s time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—”Some day he’ll come!”)

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you’re happy in the kitchen and the meal you’re cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that’s in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don’t find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they’re singing “Heaven and Ocean” from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo’s records. “Parlez moi d amour.” The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can’t do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don’t begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We’re in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We’re journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.

HVM