There is a chord that runs the entire length of you, not
strong veins nor the hapless brain confusing muddled signals, no.
There is a light from the towns that comes up all five thousand feet
to where I stand alone, wishing if only to jump, needing serenity.
Calm.
As strong as the smell of your butt coming near.
There is a hate in your heart which makes nuclear amusements bow down in quiet awe,
a forgetting of the kind times, an insistence on leaving me out here to rot, a
failing when a simple hello or easy phone call.
(Will she yet do the same to me? We he to you?)
So why did I climb so high, if not to fall? Could have been
happy in a landy merry existence, all the green grass and ferocious ticks
calling clearer - an eastside boy always at heart, going
to where the stupid sea and sky can't fail, can't help but to connect, to attract.
Love, I knew those days would shame, write all the ways that a man can break or give, I
didn't know the strength then, am guessing so still now, yet somehow stand in shock
of your anger and your hatred and hurt and the multiplicity that still goes on. A man
by any other name that tries could be approached with love,
yet kindness alone would do. There is a subtle reminder of
everything we didn't share in this strange place, the awful scent
of no maples, no mosquitos or swamp stink rising.
Still came here anyways.
I did not dream or hallucinate in the ways of my fathers. I
did not collapse in their ways, nor rise to the challenges they set, we
went our own way. It made a difference, it mattered. It
also remained quiet out here, somewhere along the valleys edge. Somewhere
where I knew not the stars nor the city lights nor the way I could begin to
look at myself, back towards you. Look at others the way eastward towards your face.
The rising sun, a blistering heat always somewhere there rising.
So I climbed as you pushed, and we both in such madness fell down together.
They call it an angles port, yet with Canada so near and the Sound so clear I
still think it better just to jump. Or at least to trip, anything but to shatter
this quaking quackery of a heart.
Yet why had I come? The car was no help, its foolish horn sounded
only on empty highway, the blacktop fading to great grey in time. Failure
in its backseat remained stain-free, its lining stocking bright. My mobile
was no help, its gimmicky taunt brightness showing only
the soft lines of my inner palm, the way my face sometimes caught
the lies growing daily, the failing flailings of a mind.
This heart was no help, for its still beats on, still loves on into the dying of the dark. The sun
is of little assistance, as its line creates worry and sweat, and another reminder that its
just another revolution, another circling round so very far away from you. For now, forever.
like it did when you neared, both working hard by which to keep out the dark. Keep
the soft time of the days clock chiming. Keep your insistent eyes reading these same lines,
somehow flowing over yet forgetting the importance of seeing, trying desperately
to find the one damn thing that will matter. Something there to soften your mood.
A blonde Orpheus rising.
After some time in which I could admire the birds, the words I simply just sat and stared
and in subtle time
moved on.
Still hoping for a sliding.
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