Her Memory of Me.

From my bird’s eye view,

the clouds look like frothy waves
on a sea of sky
and somewhere down there
deep in the ocean
she's sipping on a glass of bourbon
leaning with her back to the kitchen counter
where she reframes memories
of making love to me
as something cheap, and thus,
forgettable.

It's hard to see me from where she stands
but I'm no stranger to distance
and so I'm still here.

From Ballad of the Sad Cafe by Carson McCullers

First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons--but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world--a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring--this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else--but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

-Ballad of the Sad Cafe, Carson McCullers

What I'd Rather Say Than Fight, But I Won't

She moves me sometimes
like a small girl with her first drum
straddled and slammed with mallets on both sides
arms flailing
hair swinging
mouth open
spit flying.

Right now she's frustrated with me
so I don't tell her
that all I want to do is to kiss her mouth-
to melt into the kind of kiss where mouths open wide
tongues stretch
and faces can't possibly mash close enough together
to feel as close as you want to feel
without jaws breaking.

Breeze

Lips like a Cheshire cat’s
I gawked
while you ugly-fucked your guitar
which was always my favorite.

Through a nearsighted lens
we were envied.
We were sharing a beer.
We were laughing together.
And then the show would end.

With your guitar packed up,
our fingers locked in
you pulled me close, like a faulty zipper
just to carefully slide us apart.

Moonshine

I stopped loving you 30 seconds ago, but now I found a small cinnamon candlebought from Misty Mountain Shop.
Remember making loveto the scent of cinnamon and bonfires?
I remember your skin by firelight.I'm sorry I told you that you weren't perfect.
I wish loving you was enough.

Written in Richmond

Here's one I wrote back in April of 2006 during my freshman year of college. I know the wine references are a bit excessive. Write drunk, edit sober (except I always get too lazy for that second part).

It's 85 Degrees Outside. That's Too Hot.

I'll wear my pajamas all day if I want
and I'll walk barefoot to class
and then Put on my shoes when I get there.
A poor choice with glass in the streets, but
sometimes a plan is better in my head.
I'll have a glass of Zin if I want to,
or two, And then I'll slur like Fyodor
if I please. Because sometimes it's nice
to give my mind a break
and To sing loudly with foreign accents.

So long as it's only sometimes.

A friend asked if I plot out scenerios With friends and strangers
Stories that haven't happened yet.
She has a bookworm's mind, and anyhow she's
determined She'd fund my abortion
with her parents money.

I think she's a good friend.
She thinks I hate her.
My little boy's teasing attempts at flirting
hit her sensitive spot And not the one
I mean to hit.

I should squeeze out of that small
slit of a space My window won't open all the way,
but If I folded a few ribs I could fit through the slit
I could climb on the rooftop and Hang out
with the construction workers Crumpling their cans
stepping on cigarettes that litter my dormroom penthouse view
of the smutty streets below.

What could it hurt? They have already seen me naked.

To Chambourcin

.
I hope one day I'll swallow this
She'll taste like someone else's kiss
or it could be I'll find another wine to haunt.
But until then?
Every sip just makes me think of her
and when I drink, I can't stop thinking that
she's everything
I want.