wish you were here

I just read 30 or so people back-to-back at a house party. I am past being pooped.

(Poop.)

Anyway, happy birthday Unca Andy!

And goodnight.

A piece I wrote today at the Coffee Bean.

From the novel. I think this bit was written while Dad was ill 3 years ago.

***

It’s strange when someone dies. It’s as if you become a celebrity. Everybody wonders how you are doing. Everybody wonders if there’s anything they can do to help. Some people are true, you can tell that right off the bat that their hearts are in the right place, that worrying and making sure you’re okay is what they’re good at. And then there’ll be those people who want to feel important, who’ll try and live vicariously through you but aren’t very good at it and end up insincere. It’s true that some just don’t know what to do and they just sit there in silence with you, because they’re good at not talking, which is okay.

Celebrities live in an unreality. Death pushes you into that same kind of unreality, except when your celebrity fades you mourn the person you once were, not the person that once made sense in your world. What you thought was your life just doesn’t apply anymore. There’s a person-shaped void in the middle of everything and like one of those cheap plastic puzzles, you have to move the squares around to make the picture. But there will always be that one piece that’s missing. You have to adjust everything around that hole whether you think you can or not. There is no twaddling, you just do it. That’s why it’s so hard. It’s not just missing the person, it’s starting a new life without them in the equation. And no matter what everyone tells or suggests or asks you they just flat out don’t know. That isn’t a bad thing; people aren’t in your head, living your life, and while on the surface they can comprehend the intricacies of your life, they can never really feel it and know that in their body.

They can say You have all this stuff, you have all this stuff, but what is stuff anyway? More reminders of what you don’t have? I could have more stuff, but I’ll only have a few years of real memory. Those memories are the stuff I live with. Insomnia. Tears. Longing. Hospitals. Coughing. Weakness. Dead bodies. Vivacity. Blood. The smell of dying. This is the stuff left behind, past the car, the house, the job. I’ll carry these things until I’m dead myself. And I would not have it all if I could bring them back. I have to live with that hurt for the rest of my life. You can change the course of events, but you can’t really change memories. They’re there. You can explain all of that to someone, but it won’t evoke the same kind of instincts that they did in you.

And it really is about instincts, isn’t it? What are you going to do when something you aren’t prepared for happens? What does your gut tell you? What is the thing that feels right to you? You never know until you get there. Nothing makes sense until you’re standing there, vulnerable, feeling like you’re up in the air with nowhere to go. Maybe the direction you need to go is sideways, or down, or adjacent, or just up more. You’ll find out when you get there.

That’s how you’re supposed to grow, I guess. You learn your instincts. You learn your body. You learn certain things, like the fact that there’s really no point in planning anything in life. Things that were trite before take on completely different meanings.

The environment changes around, if only because you’re forced to look at it differently. So really, everything else is the same but you aren’t. And while that sounds really simple and pretty easy to understand, being there in that place isn’t as easy. Sometimes what you thought you knew before– the thoughts that became mantras in your head– become even worse at being sensible; then the things you thought you were so sure of crumble into bunk.

So you get all confused. You get frustrated. You’re left without the map. What was that all supposed to mean before? What does that mean now? Why won’t it fit like it used to? It’s like you’re going crazy. All these personalities you have start to argue with each other. It’s all inner tiffs with yourself, and everyone else outside sees little bits of it. They wonder what’s wrong. They want to be part of the calvary determined to fight on your side to get you out of this.
You don’t want to involve them in your battle, so you try and push them away. You try and keep them from the shadow self that even you can’t seem to make friends with and keeps creeping back into the room in your head. The battlefield. Parts of you, maybe that shadow self, wants to sabotage everything that’s on your side. You’re better off alone, away from everything, not having to be in conflict with anyone else but you.

Maybe you lash out a little. And okay, maybe it’s a way to get attention sometimes, to feel important outside your head. You want to let go of the drama just a little just so that one friend can make you feel like you’re the only battle that matters to fight. But then, if there really wasn’t something deep down, there wouldn’t be a reason to act out, to reveal the pieces that make everyone else wonder what is wrong. You’re looking for help but won’t ask.

That’s usually when the angels come. They leave footprints behind. They don’t ask to be in your battles, and they don’t ask for recompense. They just want to be there. Not even want, really, because they are just natural rescuers. That’s what they do. Nondescript positivity. And yes, there are people who are born angels, whether they know it or not. They might go by human names and take human forms. They calm you out of the storm completely. In no uncertain terms, they tell the shadow selves to die; sometimes they know just the right spell to conjure in your defense.

Your instincts kick in. You know things are going to be good regardless. You have angels and ghosts following you around, pushing you where you need to go. Even if you have the blackest part of your life you could ever have, they won’t let you fail. They’ll let you know that the only one who will make your life hell is you.

God I forgot how much I fucking love Grosse Pointe Blank.

“Where are all the good men dead– in the heart or in the head?”

“If you love something, let it go. But if it comes back to you, then it’s… broken.”

Practiced a little with the runes at Aaron’s. I’m not going to tell you what I read or who I read for. If you want a reading, ask me.

I’m making it a point not to really talk in depth about people’s readings, even from work.

My elbow really hurts because I took a big chunk out of it a couple of days ago, bending down to pick up a sock and getting the cabinet door instead. Funny bone, indeed.

You should write down again what you crumpled up the other night. I think it would be the start of a good poem.

My heart still hurts. It feels like I drank way too much caffiene. So many broken hearts.

I’m taking title suggestions for this new piece.

I want to make your heart
a broken window
fragmented glass
with a fist print so detailed
you would think
it’s a spider’s web
how have we ever walked
with our wings
dragging behind us
I can only hope to open
your hands
you’ve been hiding your eyes
for far too long a winter
hibernation is
not suited for the heart
some humans
have been kept under ice too long
look at this we’ve done
a taking off of the taking off
a piercing of the air
with strings
our hair indistinguished
some kind of stupid statement
about hurt
pinned to your back
like a kick me sign
I wanna tell you I love you
but it’s so hard
when you’re sleeping
to creep under skin
navigate hair follicles
and walk into that dream
about birdsongs
you’ve been having since
you were 13
the next time I fuck up
I want you to pat me
on the head and say
thank you for showing me that
the only reason I haven’t
lost an appendage yet
is because my friends
are nice enough to tell me
when I’m about
to stick my head
in the paper shredder
I am so bad at killing myself
I can’t even contemplate it correctly
so don’t get it twisted
that I ever stopped
thinking that you are you
and I love
that
my past is boring
but you want to make it
into a novel
that you need popcorn to ear
while you read it
I’ve had callouses on my fingertips
since I started playing violin
at 13
(maybe I was playing those
birdsongs, who knows)
I’ve pretty much lost feeling
in them
so I have to use
the back of my hand
when I touch your back
palm curled up
to emphasize the heart line
the last time
I ever forgot where I was
was when you kissed me
I thought the stars
decided to all fall at once
but I just
was about to pass out
from your face
taking up my entire vision
leave fingerprints
in the crook of my arm
just from brushing the skin
I don’t want to tell you
what you want to hear
ever
I am really bad at lying
and even worse at making appointments
so don’t plan anything
just remember the smile
and what it took to get there
let’s let the story happen
even if it’s ugly
and fragmented

“Art is beautiful until it becomes real or the truth. Keats was wrong– beauty may be truth, but the truth, once lived, is rarely beautiful.” –Jonathan Carroll, Sleeping in Flame

I want to stop thinking about what I don’t have.

Stuff I’ve been working on lately. Old memories.

and here we are, wedged
between notebooks, old articles
yellowing with cowardice,
bloodshot eyes from staring
contests. you told me to look,
and so I did, and now we
wear necklaces of elipses,
attach blame on our backs
like deja vu wings. nothing
has happened here, I am
sure of that. let’s write
the fictional history just so
we can have words (like
this) with each other:

you know, words with equations
made of context, except I can’t
seem to make it balance:

I + love
= you

even mirrored rockstars start
to mistrust the groupies
in the reflection.

I come to you wanting
to make your breath rhythmic
with my fingertips,
but I’m just not wound
up around your finger
like that.

a girl should have the right
to blush naturally, unable
to wipe it off.

***

Part of me wants to have something forbidden. Something secret. I like to keep people guessing.

But I’m a really bad liar.

How fucking cool is it to dialogue with Patricia Smith about slam/page poetry. Yeah, that fucking cool.

What a great group talk this morning. It’s good to see that feeling frustrated and small is a normal feeling for poets who want to Write For A Living.

Still, I’m not considering going back to the music review gig. I realized even more this weekend that all of our weeklies suck ass. All of them.

But a lot of good poetry was had, so that’s good.

And I saw a lot of my Mom’s side of the family tonight, which was nice. Of course, my brother didn’t go, which made me disappointed. I can understand not feeling up to it because it reminds you of Mom, whatever, but regardless of how often or not we see these people they’re still part of the bond with her. They don’t want anything from us but to be ourselves. Agh. I’ll stop that.

I feel weird. I’m trying not to think about certain things.

But I do think of people and it makes me smile. And that’s not so weird.

Refraction

Day turns into night, turns
into twilight: after the second
time, I closed the window
because we slept on opposite
sides of the bed. If we’d been
listening to vinyl, I wouldn’t
even remember the scratches
now. You used to snicker in
your sleep, but I’m the only
one, surely, who heard it.

You were the first one who had
to turn the lights off, you
know. Curious how the anger
fills where intimacy couldn’t:
you used to make fun
of yourself, but I didn’t
have the heart to correct
you. I read everything

with a critical eye, you
said, but I couldn’t help
but wonder why your
movements were more than
deliberate. You wanted past
my iris in the darkness,
when I was dilated like
a dead woman, lying there
with cold fingertips and your
touch not on my lips.

(I wanted to scream the pain
away with you inside me,
and just shut up the future
in a room on the other side
of the sun, but our outer
spaces had nothing to do
with each other. We were not
made to spark stars.)

Rituals were not made for
suspension. Eventually all
stories become erased
regret in some form or
another: so sad the amount
of emptiness between us,
a beast watching us from the corners
of my bedroom, after the sun
goodbyes for the night,
a shadow blocking more shadows.

I only wonder what you would
say now because you never
visibly shifted in any light.
You may as well
have been another ghost
in my house, haunting
for the sake of haunting–
I think I feel you, I want
to believe so hard you’re
there; I am so afraid
of illusion I just close my
eyes and have to pretend
to see you above me.

Maybe it would have been easier
in the large backyard,
under palm trees, and stars
made with more care than us.
I could have walked, yes,
but you were not able to follow.

Crumbs.

I just feel like reposting some old stuff.

M

you couldn’t have had worse casting
or a worse metaphor for us:
no dialogue, no plot,
I mean we were just
2 people
not even good enough to be characters,
kissing each other
only in private
like the lava
was about to wash over us.

I knew we were wrong
when I looked at you
from across the table
at Denny’s
and you got hard.

you were only 3 years older than me,
already married and divorced,
but I could have already
been reincarnated

from your guilt.
you liked to kiss
the inside of my thighs,
but that was only
because you didn’t know
what else to do.

I had nothing to teach you:

you didn’t even want
to go outside
because the world reminded you
of your fantasy failures,
the ones you had to make up
because you didn’t want to try.

I had to make you
write a story while I was sleeping
to show you
I didn’t have to be there
to help you.

I could never watch you sleep
because your back
was always turned to me in bed.

I barely had enough breath
of my own
to keep moving,
so our kisses, unlike CPR,
were not the good ending.

what did you want me to tell you?

the summer told us
to be alive,

I told myself
I love my life right then,

and you

were just

silence

on the end

of the line.