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{Dream-logic rarely succeeds.}Saints Waxing Poetic
A latter-day saint of a
modern day human apocalypse sits
on his front porch and waxes poetic
of all the things he could have done
–if only the gods would listen
Oh. if. i. could (smell you) feel you (touch you)
from here
would I be screaming
so loudly
“I know nothing of love?”
so says the poet
with the wandering hands.
The whole point of misdirection is that it’s
misdirection
you don’t see the hands of drug-runners
(just the after-effects)
and no one really cares if you’re dead if you
give a good funeral.
The human race runs
on alcohol and free love
but no one knows what either are
because neither exist
and now we’re all dead
and everyone cares
Hell, who’s going to give the
funeral now?
But nobody hears but the trees
–the trees don’t drink–
and the saint hasn’t got any booze.
Kings and Giants
We are the kings and queens
of a very personal hell,
which we have warped and twisted
until it became a heaven far more vast
than the one we were always promised.
We are giants in our own back-yard,
where the grass stalks
stand like oak trees
of a bygone age,
and we tower over them,
forever unsurprised.
We sit here as we always have,
the most serene of malcontents,
Reveling in what makes us miserable
and knowing that nothing hurts
more than what we love.
A Change of Pace
It is largely out of principle that I refuse to write love poems. I’ve written poems about love, if you will, and far more than that about losing it…but never a love poem. I think, perhaps, that is all about to change.
To only somewhat savagely misquote Kurt Vonnegut, “if this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
something–
“Something is missing–”
the sad man said,
“something is missing
inside my head.
A million things I knew to say,
but none of them ever came to stay.”
“Something is missing–”
the dead man said,
“something is missing,
it might be my head.
I fooled you one, I fooled you twice,
but you killed my afore I could do it thrice.”
“Something is missing–”
my daughter said,
“something is missing
a long red thread.
I had a lover one short may,
’til you killed him on that day.”
“Something is missing–”
I know I said,
“something is missing,
my soul has fled.
Daughter buried, her lover dead,
my heart unto the end has bled.”
Now What?
If I waited a week more, it would have been a year to the day since I last posted on this blog. I wish I could say anything has really changed since August, but I’d probably be lying. Well, nothing of real importance has changed. I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I’m half-way through college, and the only justification for my major I’ve been able to come up with is “I’d be just as miserable anywhere else, but at least this will pay well.” I still have enough emotional baggage to break the backs of of a baker’s dozen of camels. I still can’t shake the feeling that, when I die, it will be just as well that I’m gone. And yet…
There are some things that are different, at the very least. I’ve found a significant other who compliments my propensity for masochism quite nicely. I don’t know how long this particular relationship will last, or how it will end (though, I can only hope it won’t burst into flames like the last one did), but I can dream.
Also, I’m well on my way to becoming an alcoholic. Isn’t that wonderful?
The Paths We Take
This has not been a year of good choices for me. I look back every once in a while and wonder what happened, where I went wrong. Admittedly, I haven’t fallen so low as, say, a cocaine addiction, but for me it’s merely a matter of semantics.
I used to know where my life was going. I used to have plans. Certainty. A sense of purpose.
I have not fulfilled my resolution of the new year. If anything, my emotional baggage has gone from a manageable backpack to steamer trunk (and this trunk has fallen on my foot more than once).
There is still one note of certainty, however. There is no death more meaningful than one which is richly deserved. I fully intend to deserve it.
A New Year
For the first time in several years, I’m making a new year’s resolution. For the coming year it is my goal to be as if I lost my luggage on the way to the antarctic.
Frigid and utterly without baggage.
Damn it All
I’ve been neglecting this journal. It’s entirely my own fault.
Aylin broke down and cried today for the first time in what seems like forever. She doesn’t know what to think anymore, so she comes to me for help, but I’ll be damned if I know what’s going on either.
I am not a hostage negotiator–I don’t even know who is holding who (or if any crime has been committed).
Perhaps this is not something I ought to be committing to print, but sorting things out in my head doesn’t seem to be working, and typing is easier than writing by hand.
Aylin seems so superficial, so preoccupied with her own petty amusements that all she radiates is a terrible emotional distance. She comes across as stupid because that is the wall which is easiest to maintain. She’s afraid of pain, so instead she’s chosen the life of the numb. But this was not always the case.
To hell with it, she loved him, Arjuna, too much for her own good. It ought to have been obvious from the beginning that he did not love her back, that perhaps he did not even like her, but I was not around then and love makes people stupid. I’ve come to terms with the fact that that’s all I’m really good for: objectivity.
He spurned her, twice. Each time she went running back, like a spaniel named Helena, and each time she was greeted with what seemed like open arms (but were really gaping jaws?). And then the shit hit the fan hard enough for Aylin to notice. She cowered and prodded for a while, and eventually gave up trying to get into Demetrius’ good graces (for Helena and Hermia are not friends in this tale).
All the while she loved, and mourned, and tried to forget. Then Helena found her own love and all should be well.
But it isn’t.
Demetrius won’t stop talking, and Helena can’t stop listening (though the words sear her ears) and wondering if he’s talking about her. He was always difficult to decipher, and even more so now that all context has been lost.
She’s started mourning again and helplessly scattering bits of herself about, and it it up to I, Hazael, to put her back together again.
I’m tempted just to go and beg for a sign from our petulant deity, Lord Arjuna. Something, anything, to set myself at ease…
What Comes in Dreams
I still miss my Arjuna. It’ weird and I know that I shouldn’t, but I do and I suppose my subconcious knows that better than even I.
I’m lying in my bed with no pants on (because it’s winter and cargo pants are uncomfortable to sleep in), and out of no where Arjuna shows up. He tells me that he’s getting married the next day at this resort where we’re both staying (how he managed to get into my room, and why it’s my dorm room, I have no idea), and he wanted to see me one more time, or something.
For no readily apparent reason he takes off his shirt and crawls into bed next to me. He tells me that he’s sorry, and that he hasn’t forgotten, but he’s a changed man now. I smile and turn around so that I’m facing him and extend a hand in a mock handshake. “Pleased to meet you,” I say, “I have no name.” I’m not sure if he gets this oblique reference to my more annoying activities involving him, but he says nothing, and we just lie there for a while.
There is a mosquito, and it bites Arjuna. I offer to open the window to see if it will fly out, but Arjuna gets out of the bed as I’m doing so and begins putting on his shirt (it’s light blue), saying that he needs to get going anyway. He wants Kitty and I to help him pick out movies for something, I’m not sure what.
The next thing I know, Arjuna is getting married to a skinny girl with clearly colored reddish/orange hair and goth make-up. She’s wearing a pair of grey dress pants, and keeps complaining that they make her look like she has no ass. It’s true, in fact, but I say nothing. At some point I recycle several soda cans.
After the wedding Sterling is back in his t-shirt and jeans, and desperately trying to evade having to look after his new wife’s twin toddler cousins. Kassi and I go looking for him. Just as we reach the bottom of a set of stairs, Sterling catches me around the waist and makes some self-righteous comment about how he hates children. I can’t help but wonder why he got married.
Then I wake up. Damn dorms.
Mr. Whitekeys
Mr. Whitekeys, I’m sick of waiting and playing this game because I’ll never be as good at it as you.
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