Aged

August 12, 2011

Amor and Psyche (Edvard Munch, 1907)

I saw you today for the first time since I’ve come of age
and grown into my own colored
and darkly spotted sanity—
Garments that used to outsize me
and have recently become a finished delicacy I can’t remove.

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I stalked you, unseen portals to your expression,
Unseen petals on your brow,
To an unknown country you no doubt make
crisp, smoky, sun-burnt, like autumn.
Deeply affecting, lusty like a Bordeaux.
Sensuous as oil dragged wet across a canvas.

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Long traveled past how many clear and painted bottles,
and my heavy shoulders now bare,
I stalked you to kiss a ghost.
You were older, not as lean,
and still the distance between us was no more than when
you used to stand over me, dearest, collecting my oxygen.
When I had breathed you in instead,
had sustained upon your closeness,
As I had worshiped every curl of your pen and
the way your words used to tip across your lips and spill out
to my breast, an endless well.

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I stalked you out today
but rather
discovered instead my unspoiled spleen—
and the last bits that shrieked in ecstasy and bled violet—
right where I had left them,
In your delicate, passing hands.

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My Profound Apologies

July 20, 2011

Generally what looking over these old entries is like.

Entry numero trois in my series of recent posts that have been resurrecting old bloggity ghosts from my little blog graveyard where my former blog used to live a few years before I ever started writing this one. Let’s see if I can use the word “blog” some more. Blog bloggity bloggitude. Blog.

This post is actually decently interesting (to me), because it starts out as me around the year 2007, and then stretches back to my booze-soaked mindset around late 2005. And it is vastly different from the present, mostly due to slowly diminishing levels of substance abuse over those periods all the way to my current happy resting place of better emotional health. (Also, you’ll note I’m less snobby about online journaling now. Not related, but it bears mentioning since I have lots of current friends who use Livejournal and other things, and also since I’ve been much more emotionally candid on my own blog in recent years.) However, the message of my original 2005 post still resonates with me.

Isn’t that weird, by the way? When you find an artifact that proves the existence of a part of you you barely remember, but the artifact is still relevant?

So, anywho, here is my 2007 entry, My Profound Apologies (and, you know …my profound apologies):

I know I never actually post anything truly serious on here because I prefer to make my blog entries all very tongue-in-cheek, blatantly poking fun at the teary-eyed, attention-whore drivel that so many misguided, over-funded youths around me hammer out over weak-ass coffee and cigarettes they’re too young to buy and, likely, have to hide in the basement so their parents don’t find them. …Clearly I don’t speak from past experience or anything… I don’t post serious stuff because I live only very little of my life out of the public eye. Anything there is to know about me is pretty well-known by anyone I see regularly. There’s no need. Or ask me a question in person. I’ll give you an honest answer, and hey, probably offer to buy you a beer.

However, gentle reader (I’m going to go ahead and continue by the off-chance that there is possibly one of you out there who has made it tripping over the long-winded structure of my first paragraph. Bless your little heart), I will write this one serious blog post. Because I think it is a good thought.

I have kept a series of journals since I was about 14 years old. Back before Livejournal or Xanga or whatever else people use, when some individuals (myself included) had the idea that private journals were, well, private matters. My journals are full of most of the experiences I’ve had, many of the late teens/early 20s entries are substance-tainted (and the substances vary), and feature some pretty interesting poetry inspired by…well, inspirational quantities of liquor. The great equalizer. (Makes my poetry roughly as bad as the next guy’s.)

Yore.

Tonight I came across a few paragraphs that were the end of my very last entry of my college career. I have no remembrance of writing it (not unusual for me), but I thought it was truthful enough to bear repeating. So hear it goes; an excerpt of the life of a one-time rum-soaked harlot:

“I would really like to take the end of this experience day by day, not thinking about it as a whole. That way, I guess I’ll be less saddened or scared about moving on. On the other hand, I feel like if I don’t stop and really take in the weight of this time of my life–this time on the brink–that I’ll never be able to hold on to these moments like I’m supposed to. I don’t know which will make me a happier person in the long run, or if it matters. I’d like to take more pictures before it’s over. Open myself up a little more to the people I love. Breathe these occasions in. There just wasn’t enough time for all I wanted to experience with these people. Will all of life be so evanescent? Shimmering briefly, then going out as quickly as it had flared up?

Maybe someday when I’m dead these words will be read by a few. Or by more, god help them. They’ll certainly think me a lush and perhaps too liberal with my sexuality. I hope so much, however, that they find the heart in all of it. The love of freedom of expression, the appreciation of people who’ve touched my life, the drive toward actual substance, and the strain for meaning and understanding. That is what should be taken away from every single entry. That is what I put into them, every time, in the middle of all these nights spent writing. The enjoyment, the lunacy, the abandon, the grasping, and the pain. Telling it as I see it, whether it’s meant to be read or not. I wonder if someday I’ll have grandkids who stumble across these journals in a box and are appalled by the way I’ve lived my youth. I hope not, though. Because I sincerely hope they’ll have truly known me before I’ve died, that age will not bring with it the fear of truth and feeling for me. Anyhow, here’s to the rest of it. Goodnight.”

I’m pretty sure I passed out in an alcohol-induced slumber at that point, but you get the gist, yes?

Compromise

January 10, 2011

Compromise

Erstwhile dreams and prophetic sequences
of a bone structure built for flight,
of exploding mad into the night—
like flowers smearing the sky,
like raining bright red showers—
of dying in multi-soul embraces,
of expanded vibrant spaces
all tend to meet their sedentary death,
unused and unsprung.
Resting tepid,
engulfed by the anesthetics
of familiar objects and lovers’ soothing tongues.
No one ever litigates
for passionless crimes against the self,
for your harmony with the unsung choir
despite a throat full of your own songs.
It’s all neatly wrapped in compromise
and wistfully admired
by those who can afford only to wear it.

Rubble

August 24, 2009

rubble

I found myself ‘neath scenes of wreckage
where I’d left me, and forgotten,
snow blind, hole-bound,
seasick, hell-bent,
before I’d washed up here.
I was painting on a sticky
ipseity, collecting and amassing
bone-bruises, flesh-gashes
like anecdotes and party favors.
They clung to my breast
all tarred down, scarlet ornaments.
Atop that—all I had left to swallow
on a full belly, mouth open.
Picturesque catastrophes
on heavy-threaded tapestries
and crumbled walls and gates
and rubble. Heaped
upon my tender self.
I found me dusty, wasted, withered,
four dull limbs cradled inward, tucked.
Unfolding myself,
unbending, deep wading,
Crest-breaking.
Re-exposure.

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