a draft ——-

when these swellings of madness subside, my love -

when the tides of our aching hearts find pleasure
in lapping sweet at the sandy shores,
the fires of blustering tempests having faded, long ago,
into the sighing curtains of white morning fog
settling slow
against the waking waters of now ancient oceans -

and the thundrous poundings of racing feet
and desperate hearts grow silent,
and our souls awake to the pattering
tapdancings of tiny toes and dappled rosy fingers
dancing light across brows long since burnished
by the burning rays of extinguished blazes –

i am he, and he is me;

and the beauty lies in such language not obscuring, but instead revealing, Some (oh, The forever Patient) truth.

look, i’ll even borrow his songpretty voice.

to be like him, don’t be like him. and if you want to be like him, well, there’s your first problem.

they try to tell me that language and decade and society make the man the man he is. but if that’s so, how can i understand, perfectly sweetly purely like it’s mine own, what he says and breathes onto the page? there’s essential personness that transcends all that shit. sure, i can’t know that i know. but i know nonetheless.

swing back & forth between exhaustion, inspiration. feel as though i could write all night and furthermore that i should, but then there’s the should of work & moneytime, which i’d give all my money to erase whole and entirely from the face of this rolling sad earth – yet it come back time & again & poke me in the eye, the eyes, les yeux, says hi pay attention to me or else like a two foot tall dictator –

fuck off, you, i say to him, and he laughs and gives me that look as he walks away that says he’s creeped his way into my soul & ill never be rid of him til death do us part.

fuck the little man; i’ll take a pen and open me if i have to from the gills on up & pull him out & leave him giggling on the side of some silent highway in nebraska.

and slowly we fill in those answers. write for those who can hear you. that includes you (me). because, as he the good man says on page 74:

“and i know there’s no need to tell a story and yet i know there’s no need for silence….why else should we live but to discuss (at least) the horror and the terror of all this life —- “

and, i must add, the beauty, though it shine at times very dim

not fond at the moment. of (m)any.

BUT fleur de mal is gorgeous. never read the french before; blowing my mind.
ah, baudelaire…one for whom my fondness will never wane. je t’aime, mon ami.

i live, mentally, too far inside the head of an ancient _____ [greek/roman/barbarian/whatever....]. some part of me grabbed onto the concept of fate-as-truth, fate-as-meaning, when my soul and being (the part that stays static, that is) was just starting to poke its little head through its little white crackly shell. and now i’m stuck with it, as powerless to change it as aristotle was to foresee the coming of strip malls and the religious right.

and on a related note, a few words about sincerity.

sincerity has always struck me as the light, the truth, and the Giant Incessantly Hammering Two-By-Four when it comes to relating with my fellow two-legged brethren. meaning: it’s the only way to be, but the only way to be is sometimes (always, on second thought) the way of masochism. undesired, unwarranted, and unintentional masochism, but masochism nonetheless. its forays into a twisted kind of loving sadomasochism can be entertaining at times, and provide endless hours of self-revelatory ramblings of self&other-deprecation, leading yours truly to the possession of an all-too-occassional envy of the happily dishonest, ignorant or apethetic; but in the end, i have to admit that i’m destined to live every waking hour babbling my Truths, regardless of the fracturing of world-as-i-be-it they cause. what choice do i have? living, as i do, in the grip of Fate and Destiny themselves, the Forms of forms?

the worst, she said, is silence.

silence equals madness. madness equals denotation and following, disintegration. alexandria tumbles to the ground, but in the head. structure and form twining fluid and formless between and then into the other’s arms of iron. no paeons to angles and lines embedded in painted shiftings of butterfly wings, say i, if my eyes are sight and blindness one.

if something so small and weightless as silence can shift the balance of the moon i see tonight through panes of shuttered glass.