Posts for June 3, 2022 (page 8)

For you,
I sometimes deny,
My most basic needs.  

Allowing my throat,
To grow Sahara dry with thirst,
And my stomach,
To churn and burn with hunger.  

Denying the sharp pain,
That cobras up my spine,
And the tension,
That grips my neck like a vise.  

Neglecting my bulging bladder,
And the fact that the room has grown cold.
I struggle against the urge to shiver.  

Remaining still.
Still…and silent.  

I long to scream,
To stretch,
To seek sunlight.
But I do not.

I dare not,
Disturb an atom of the atmosphere.  

I will endure
The thirst, the hunger, the pain, the boredom.  

I will remain a willing captive,
As long as you keep purring,
And lounging in my lap.

We are taught
To live uncomfortably

So we don’t find a place
In life
To settle in

Shoes a bit too tight

A dull shoulder pain
After sleeping in a weird posture

Waking up our bodies to an alarm
Before their time
Reminding them in doing so
They didn’t come to this world
To surrender to rest

We are taught 
To accept,
To seek even,
Everything that prevents us from nestling
In Placid’s embrace.

Feeling a bit cold,
Suffer some heat,
Resist tired souls and soar muscles

We are taught
To withstand our bodies’ requests,
Their cries for a breather,
For a pause, for a break.

To snatch control of themselves out of their hands
To then offer it to the Highest Power
It who no one actually knows
But everyone praises

The Master who wrings us out

And kills us dead

                  of 
                                               days, 
  
                                                                    slow
           time,            that sense 
of lifting,                                  memories

                            of 

                                                 a                childhood
farm, when                       she understood

                                                                 love       as

                              place.

~ Erasure of  page 274 from the novel, Olive, Again by Elizabeth Strout
                 

she just turned twenty one, we met when she was eighteen her brain was a sponge
now that she’s as old as i was i feel guilty, years after i already trapped her with me
   she has dust in her fan; beads of my sweat fall on her forehead
she got so drunk she has a concussion from falling off of the bed

my hands get stuck running through her hair
it’s long now
  healthier now but i get tangled in knots like i always did
her hair is so thick she breaks all of her claw clips

i can’t wait to share a bottle with her tomorrow
i love her sometimes
  i love her in the summer i’m so shallow
i wanna take her out to eat; i wanna eat [her] out

my girlfriend can never get rid of me even if i leave i took the songs in my pockets
her room is messy my life is messy and i don’t tell her about it

i wait
for daylight eyes
to accommodate
desert black sky
the longer i wait
more stars appear
from mesa top to
pinyon tree   a mandala
above   more layers
of white dots show
themselves to me   
my city-lit mind lost
with wonder

Were I at all a praying man, I’d fall prostrate in the dust,
And on my face before the gods, I’d praise them for my lust.

Or goddesses! That’s even better, if I had my choice!
I’d sit and eat and drink with them, and tell them of my lust.

Not that they wouldn’t already know — my eyes do tell the tale.
But heroic yarns I would nonetheless spin of my love of love and lust.

“Behold!” I’d yell, brandishing the goblet, all disheveled in my ardor:
“If only you knew how my brain and my body simply roil with constant lust!”

“Oh, we certainly know,” they’d sing to me, and spin choruses ’bout my thirst
For ruination, for anticipation — for the fleshly realization — of all Leif’s loves and lusts.

Eyes as waters of Chania,

Shakespeare would write of everyday things
 in proud iam pentameter
So that even the laundry days
 seem like something that matters.

Anon, Alas, a sword, a horse
  Star-crossed teenagers in love
A maid, a lord, a fairy queen
  Tongues trill with words from above.

But I am just a regular soul
  A lover of words, not a fighter.
Unlike the Bard, I speak in regular prose,
  But I, like him, a writer.

follow me on Instagram
friend me on Facebook
retweet me on Twitter
catch me on Snapchat

these are the kinds of things
i might say if i lived
a digital life

fuck that

i prefer flesh and blood,
the chemical and electrical bonds we call Nature

have dinner with me
let’s go fishing
write me letters while 
we are apart
we can play checkers or Sorry
let’s sit on the porch and watch the sun and the birds
and the neighborhood cat

let’s look at each other, not
at some damn screen

e-
qual-
ly
di-
vis-
i-
ble
by
2,
3,
4,
and
6–
but
e-
ven
more
de-
light-
ful
un-
di-
vid-
ed:
one
doz-
en