9th
Insomnia
I can’t sleep, so here’s some poetry I wrote over the years after/during various romantic relationships……..
And the Sea Gave Up the Dead That Were In It*
I wake up
energy coursing through me like
it never coursed through nobody before
and I move faster than motion allows you can’t see me.
Baby, you were amazing last night
and, baby, without you baby,
nothing feels baby right baby.
I’m an efficiency maniac
cook clean send you packing,
I’m part German you know
and
after World War III all that’s going to be left is
cockroaches, rats, and Jews.
Class consciousness arising from
middle class upper lower down
raise her up
hoist the flag
wave the banners
Jesus is coming
if not tomorrow then today:
and I’m not ready yet.
*Revelations 20:13
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Sleeping Beauty
Anarchy reigns over me.
I cast all believers out.
I do not see them as they,
one by one, are dragged away
by hungry lions.
I am blinded by
the inferno within,
and yet I feed its fire.
I want to feel it rage
and consume me.
I turn away from the ideal
toward the darkness where
my doubts are hidden in the shadows
and he is the light that casts them.
If I left the cave,
his glow would be drowned
in the blistering heat of the Good,
and I would be released.
But I am so snug, and
so safe.
Perhaps I will linger for
just a moment longer,
pressing my cheek against
the coolness of this rock,
and resting here, in the shade.
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Da-sein Gets Entangled in Itself*
1
My mind is filled with a roaring cacophony:
the voices of a thousand days.
Everything crowds together in my brain,
bouncing off the walls and into each other,
bruised and mangled versions of themselves.
I cannot grow quiet.
Riotous life
held in the go
always already beyond stopping.
I fornicate and read the paper.
Keep abuzz until I can
descend into deep seamless oblivion
to forget the everlasting void.
2
Boys
scatter my attention
like marbles splayed
against a marble wall.
His demon-drawing touch.
I submit to beauty wherever I find it
in contemplating holyJesusMary,
and in his glow when he knows I will
give myself to him.
*Heidegger, Being and Time, pg.178 (German pagination)
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Ouroboros
I met you during March Madness.
We watched the final game together in a bar.
I wore a red sweater
which you couldn’t stop touching
and you gripped my arm tightly
at just the right moments.
You walked me home after the game;
I was still with my boyfriend then.
You said you wanted to kiss me
and I thought you were going to.
Instead, an awkward embrace and honesty.
In April (the cruelest month)
I told my boyfriend about you.
But clarity didn’t come until later,
when the fireworks exploded
and in the glare I could see clearly,
that for us honesty was only an effigy of a scarecrow.
I began a rotation schedule of my own,
between the two of you every other night
throughout the frenetic spring,
and in the feverish summer.
Finally, near the end of August,
we abandoned each other.
You left the dead body out to rot;
I picked it up and carried it with me.
Slowly I buried the decaying limbs as they fell.
I spent the autumn and half the winter
planting the remnants of our adventure in truth
until unexpectedly in the dead of winter
(Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?)
I met someone, and for him
my frozen earth began to thaw.
Before anyone knew what was happening
we found me settling in with a new boyfriend
like a tamed Bacchanal.
Now March Madness is drawing to a close once again,
but this year I have not been watching the games:
they were drowned out by the crackling in my ears.
I have not stopped burning,
and still I lean against my doorway
waiting for a stranger’s kiss.
———————————————————————————————————————————————
Addicted to your body.
And you want to talk about love.
Again.
I stood up too fast so
The blood is rushing to my head and
I can’t quite see.
With or without you:
Nothing matters except that
Something matters.
If only I could believe
I think that (heart thumping)
Perhaps maybe (sweaty hands)
It would…
But I’m only addicted to your body
And my cold blood keeps rushing.
———————————————————————————————————————————————
I met Young America in a bar the Friday after Thanksgiving.
Young America said he wasn’t cold in just his FDNY t-shirt
but later put his jacket back on and admitted he was.
Young America is a volunteer firefighter because that was his dream when he was even Younger America.
Young America likes The Alchemist. Is being a firefighter Young America’s Personal Legend (YAPL)?
Young America took me on top of a fire truck and I kissed him.
Young America couldn’t keep it up in bed and I told him it was OK.
Young America drives a Pontiac Firebird and opens the passenger door for ladies.
Young America’s body feels good next to mine at night.
Young America listen:
I met Old America almost in this very bar right after 9/11.
He told me he wants to bomb the hell out of those Afghanis,
showed me pictures of his kids, and bought me a beer.
Remind me to introduce you to Old America sometime.
One of you might learn something.
Young America, this poem is not for you.
Young America, no one cares like I do.
Young America, you list your political views on facebook as “apathetic.”
Young America, I don’t list my political views on facebook but have to admit I’m a pinko.
Young America, could you still love a pinko?
Young America, forget I said anything.
