Everyone says
Go home and you'll feel better. (I promise!)
Those first two words break my heart.
The best and worst part about being
A Gitana
is the same thing.
Leftover curry grows spicier.
Leftover feelings, memories, patterns
only grow in size and weight.
No suitcase is big enough to carry all of this.
Nor should I have to carry it alone.
(Should is a modal verb which ought to be removed from language.)
I am very good at walking sideways (like a crab).
You all fear I cannot walk forward; I'm sure doubting I can at all.
And You most of all, cannot promise to
help, sympathize, simply watch.
There is toxicity yes, I know (I'm scared too!) but also
simple truths and simpler smiles.
Probably one day, we'll all understand everything
because age and time like to play drinking games
and turn us into fools.
But for now, we laugh and sigh and love
painfully, as if they were the most amazing, original feelings.
They aren't.
You insist (vehemently) that you have faith in me.
I believe you think you do.
But do you, truly? If you had faith in all of me,
you'd know I'm not uncertain about this.
About everything else, but not This.
And I have the energy and power and imagination to see it through.
Three more days to rest and ache,
to cry and to smile and battle through.
The suitcases we are given to use are stronger
than we think, and bigger than we know.
30 April, 2010
28 April, 2010
27 April, 2010
Ode
My girlfriend is severe with me.
She is severe and soft and knows when I sin.
When I sin, my girlfriend laughs.
She knows that I sin only because it matches my outfit.
My girlfriend is the only person in the world
who knows that I know that she knows that I know.
We know.
My girlfriend shares my tongue, and we speak
back and forth between eras, countries, psychologies.
She is beautiful.
She thinks I am beautiful.
My girlfriend still loves me even though
I left her for something I'm not even sure I have found, or will find.
She knows I am incapable of decision
yet full of courage and promise and dedication.
As I laugh and tear up and vomit my passions
she sits and says "no jodas tanto".
The first time I saw her, I knew I was in love.
This queen of organized chaos, this lover of love.
She teaches me daily, without her even being aware.
We can leave each other crying and know there are no judgments.
Though we've never made love, we know we don't need to.
She withstands my inadequacies with the strength only she has.
My girlfriend understands my curse of magnetism
because she had been cursed once too.
Perhaps she still is.
My girlfriend is my soul mate because
she knows I don't believe in the soul and she doesn't care.
Her energy and my reliance make us powerful adversaries
because we both believe in energy, and time, and love.
I love her.
She is severe and soft and knows when I sin.
When I sin, my girlfriend laughs.
She knows that I sin only because it matches my outfit.
My girlfriend is the only person in the world
who knows that I know that she knows that I know.
We know.
My girlfriend shares my tongue, and we speak
back and forth between eras, countries, psychologies.
She is beautiful.
She thinks I am beautiful.
My girlfriend still loves me even though
I left her for something I'm not even sure I have found, or will find.
She knows I am incapable of decision
yet full of courage and promise and dedication.
As I laugh and tear up and vomit my passions
she sits and says "no jodas tanto".
The first time I saw her, I knew I was in love.
This queen of organized chaos, this lover of love.
She teaches me daily, without her even being aware.
We can leave each other crying and know there are no judgments.
Though we've never made love, we know we don't need to.
She withstands my inadequacies with the strength only she has.
My girlfriend understands my curse of magnetism
because she had been cursed once too.
Perhaps she still is.
My girlfriend is my soul mate because
she knows I don't believe in the soul and she doesn't care.
Her energy and my reliance make us powerful adversaries
because we both believe in energy, and time, and love.
I love her.
Ashland Bus/ Numero 9
The Ashland bus always reminds me
of the summer when we moved in together
on our own, finally for the first time.
I had waited years for this.
I played house because I wanted to, not because I was
dominated, blinded, impeached.
I remember holding hands as we waited for the
next bus to take us to Our castle.
I remember the specific smell of the sun
and the rush of traffic as I walked most of the way.
The bus still doesn't come on time.
When I am on it, I feel ghostly and severe.
I have no anger inside.
Yet the sweet cinnamon bitterness
of irony still makes me sneeze,
once in a while.
I don't believe in time travel.
I could, though.
I'd like to.
There is a new number 9 bus where I live now.
I don't take it much, because I don't need to.
When I do, I don't remember sunlight and excitement.
This bus is filled with real people, not ghosts.
Mostly teenagers, dressed in gray and navy.
They are impolite and loud and boisterous,
and it helps not to concentrate on memories
I don't think about anymore.
An overwhelming balloon of fear, boredom,
disappointment, excitement, failure and stubbornness
fills my lungs like liquid soap from the store.
I do not turn to you for anything because
I know there is nothing left in either of our
picnic baskets.
The surprise wrapped in chocolate is a duplicate
and we can no longer feign the excitement.
I don't like taking the Ashland bus anymore
because its direction has changed and the
sun doesn't smell the same.
of the summer when we moved in together
on our own, finally for the first time.
I had waited years for this.
I played house because I wanted to, not because I was
dominated, blinded, impeached.
I remember holding hands as we waited for the
next bus to take us to Our castle.
I remember the specific smell of the sun
and the rush of traffic as I walked most of the way.
The bus still doesn't come on time.
When I am on it, I feel ghostly and severe.
I have no anger inside.
Yet the sweet cinnamon bitterness
of irony still makes me sneeze,
once in a while.
I don't believe in time travel.
I could, though.
I'd like to.
There is a new number 9 bus where I live now.
I don't take it much, because I don't need to.
When I do, I don't remember sunlight and excitement.
This bus is filled with real people, not ghosts.
Mostly teenagers, dressed in gray and navy.
They are impolite and loud and boisterous,
and it helps not to concentrate on memories
I don't think about anymore.
An overwhelming balloon of fear, boredom,
disappointment, excitement, failure and stubbornness
fills my lungs like liquid soap from the store.
I do not turn to you for anything because
I know there is nothing left in either of our
picnic baskets.
The surprise wrapped in chocolate is a duplicate
and we can no longer feign the excitement.
I don't like taking the Ashland bus anymore
because its direction has changed and the
sun doesn't smell the same.
26 April, 2010
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