found it.

14 11 2003

on disappearing (don’t)
as always, for Rebecca Brightwing

your back’s again against the wall
red brick
stained and scarred
with blood and love and time and cherry pipe-tobacco
your shoulder blades scrape against its frozen clay
which still somehow can speak of riverbeds
and if you lean back hard enough to bleed
you can become the river

toss your head like wild, wild horses;
never meet my eyes; are you afraid that
yours will melt like chocolate? or that mine will run
like rain?

pose the way i asked him years ago to take your picture
your sharp chin outlined
(you believe)
in razor-wire
but i see flowers blooming there
and in the grinding screams you dance to
i hear you pour like water
after a diving arc of violins

curl in like the crescent moon
a cheshire smile all lies
all truth all
trying to disappear
and i
who would take that razor to my own skin
before daring to sway you am
trying to keep your breath
cupped in my hands

brace with that inked and tattered coat
edging tank-girl ferocity
your hay-pale hair clawing free of its wind-chime chains
your face half in shadow, your
hands full of tears, jammed in silver-linted pockets

lean still and let me paint what sees itself within you:
those high wings, even folded, trailing
white and flawless feathers…
your lashes turn to smoke
and your eyes burn flashfire holes in the canvas,
refusing to be captured, refusing more to let me name
that beauty; go on,
incinerate the inspiration but you can’t
erase yourself so easily
inside of me.

weaving together creation and denial
with practiced hands, practiced laughter
(so distant I have to count the seconds to guess the miles,
but somewhere deeper, yet it’s truer than you know, and though)
you run again and leave only
a single feather in your wake
still, I know
you know
I’ll keep it sacred for you
and even in your darkest moments
will refuse to hide the evidence.




5 responses

14 11 2003

that was ….. So Incredible… So Beautiful… So…. goddamn i wish i had the Proper words–the True, Right Words–to Respond… to Say Thank you, for such a Gift–such an Impossibly Beautiful Gift… to Tell you how Truly Honored i am…. to Tell you how Amazing You Are… to Tell you how Much that Poem Means to Me…
but as Always, i dont.
all i can do (all it seems i can Ever do) is offer you a tear-stained kiss and tell you how Very Much i Love you.

14 11 2003

i love you too.
and i think our educations train us not to think that small, true, scrambled-up sets of words can communicate very clearly indeed. you shouldn’t listen to the education-voices. i hear yours just fine.
all you do is love me. with beautiful, fabulous you-ness, and woman-ness, and fairy-wing-ness, and fierce-ness, and gentle-ness, and i could list for a long, damn time, but the point is it’s a pretty big ALL!
oh, and inspire me. i don’t write poetry for many people anymore. i still write poetry for you. usually in my head, on my way to school, where i don’t have time to write it down, and so the words they fade away. but i like to think they wind up where you are, somehow, even if by then they’re in small strings and inarticulate. *hug*
you’re welcome! 🙂

18 11 2003

Thanks for saying that. that was Really Cool of you….particularly since you are one of those educated types.
i thought i felt your words on the wind the other day. i think i definitely Do Feel–if not Hear–the bits and pieces of poetry that come out of your head for me. and i Treasure every one of them.
cant tell you how Much it means to me that you write stuff like that for me and not many other people these days…… i wish i could write like that for you. maybe one day i’ll be able to give you or show you or write you something that will let you just what you mean to me and what i think of you.
maybe one day.

18 11 2003

b, you still don’t get it. you NEVER get it.
you don’t have to write-like-anything. you don’t have to write at all. or give or show or whatever else those verbs imply. you ARE “stuff like that for me.” all you have to do is breathe, and smile at me.
(which doesn’t mean that i don’t want you to keep writing, so i can keep sitting here w/the warm fuzzies to drive away the cold outside!)
but every ass-kicking inspiring warm supportive thing you say to anybody else is “stuff like that for me.” you being there for the monkey when he’s down is “stuff like that for me.” you knowing what the hell i’m talking about when i mention cherry pipe-tobacco, and understanding why i loved harney even after he was the world’s biggest shit to me (repeatedly), and forgiving me for mooching your name for Bear, and hanging the random stuff i buy you up on your walls, and spending money you didn’t have to be in my damn wedding AND then managing my mother for me while you were at it (i think she’s ready to nominate you for sainthood)–it’s all “stuff like that for me.”
be poetic if you want to be, for you. i’ll be glad to see and share and play at words with you whenever. but be just you for me.

19 11 2003

Thank you…..Again…..
*kisses your forehead and just holds you quietly*
(i Hate that i have to write the actions rather than being able to do them properly.)
i think part of the problem lies in the fact that in my estimation of me, i will and can Never Be Enough. so im always Afraid that i havent said or done Enough, or said or done the Right things….
then theres the fact that i Feel all these things and See all these things and Know all these things, and i cant seem to Ever Communicate them in a way that i feel is Adequate–you know? very occasionally, when i write, i feel like im able to Truly Communicate. more often, when i Dance, i feel like im Communicating (all though more often than not, not TO anyone in particular…) and sometimes when im playing my flute or the piano…..
i Hear what youre saying, and it takes my words away (not in a bad way–i just dont know what to say to such things). i’ll work on that–the “just Being me” part.
cant wait to see you. it may not be as soon as i’d Hoped, but we’ll see.

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