Not the old, familiar theme of ‘how you misunderstand me,’ but in the absence of control, meaning sheds words like dead skin or victimize them to speak untruth instead.
Let me be your vehicle. You drive, I move. Knowing that neither will reach any place each wants to get to, for one is a route (right or wrong), and two is a diversion (right or wrong). Come, let’s go for a ride.
Let’s call it a ‘trial run.’ Take me for a ride. We are, after all, forever on trial. On a trial basis, you and I. You try me.
Found ‘wanting and condemned to a life of snakes and ladders, roses and daggers, matrimony.’
After so many fair injustices……..at the touch of dawn, several continents away, I felt my body restructuring itself without consulting me.
I’m quite sure I proclaimed myself, ‘You are both subject and abject.’
For the purpose of demonstrating sadness due to being misunderstood by the person I truly love, I expect a revelation of some sketchy sorts. Brute terror clutches my heart. It was an ordinary day.
With ready-made expressions, we made ready-made love. With threadbare bodies. Grunt conversational pieces. Good morning. How are you today? How’s your laptop? Had breakfast? It’s still night here. Nothing personal, of course. No fun intended. I slink back into my wall. I hold up half of the roof. I have suffered the snickers of sunset. I AM that claw crawling on the ocean floor.
Come, come. I’ll show you my inner life. Unmediated. Uncensored. Fullblown confessional. Explicit porn.
Displayed my intestines in visceral forms.
I may be empty inside, but behold my outer skin, thick with barnacles, undersea, a rusty clock telling time to timeless creatures still unknown to being. A strip of raw octopus. The fourth portion in a sushi set.
Or accumulated coats of colorless clichés. They protect me from ultra-violet rays. From unspeakable pain-in-the- soul (from taking word forms). From wanting a life. Real? You’re telling me.
Feel me. I’m a void.
Fill me with stones in my sack.
Cement me to life, or life’s facts.
I smile in photographs. I crack.
My left eye is glossy. You know, like art paper that can print high resolution color pictures. As real. As hyperreal. The bee on the pollen looking more real than a real bee. See the pollen silently exploding spores into the air. See the bee bathe itself in the pollen. Such eroticism. My right eye is my destiny. Indifference.
I am tall, but still fall short of substituting for a promise that failed to fulfil. No, my dear, I am neither explaining my blame on you nor coloring in the blank spaces in your dark picture book.
I have been there. Aware of nothingness, my sword, my shield, my cocoon.
It made me loathe myself, my cancered lung, my squelched mind, my boon.
The words you hurled at me, once more, were crumpled paper, calcified bones, and sometimes when you out do yourself, putrefied meat and sharp fish bones. I didn’t hope they would ever turn to fleur-de lis or the purest of damask rose, or the summer solstice in Reykjavik.
I contradict myself (which you always remind me of).
The alternative is to hope. The kind of intensity of a stone.
There, darling, I’ve spilled the beans. I’ve come clean. I’ve let the cat out of the kitten.
My body, as you know so well, is my waste product. I manufacture my soul.
I choose life, or at least an idea of life, or a story of lucid life illuminated to a purposeful retold.
3 Sept. ‘13