10:04 p.m. So I wrote you a poem, an admittedly shitty poem: I sat with my legs dangling on the seawall with my notebook opened to a blank page, and thought about you, moving, transforming, becoming; I said to myself, I will write you a poem, and maybe it will tell me something, maybe it may even communicate (in that subatomic mysterious way that all things communicate, if those annoying dancing Wu-Li masters can be believed) something to you. So I wrote you this poem: and as I wrote it, ah jeez, the futility of trying to say anything at all took metaphoric root in my soul's blood-enriched lining and began meiosis -- that whole sad business of cell-dividing and multiplying and gathering weight and tissue to itself, the whole evolution of melancholy. Ontology recapitulates prosogony, as my kindergarten teachers said.

In short, I wrote this poem as a kind of reply to the message on my answering machine -- or, more accurately, as my only reply, since I'm abashedly discourteous and horribly unskilled in any technology more complicated than masturbation. In your message, you say: "At least call me back and say that you love me?" Perhaps my stupid poem would tell you what I could not say.

This poem is called "unrenconciled."

so the world blisters on, unregarding
to the star-pocked faces of the dying
light which had gathered in the garden
where we once tried conquering death, and died trying.
so the nights and the days dwindle down, denying
that you will return whence you've gone, from our parting
hope that we would reconcile undamaged from the fighting--
that that brightness we love would not change, somehow slighting
the grim inexorable check-out cashier's grin and his change... so the tithing
will bankrupt us completely; so our bad timing
delivers our lovely awfulness in the church of our lying;
so, so what? this lonely dark feels warm, like a blessing,
and I'd rather you are gone and alive than joined in my diminishing.
as my eyes fly away, as my sinew and skin unsew, I don't mind confessing
that if true death is sleep, life's a long undressing

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

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