AN OLD SUICIDE NOTE

1995

From my eye
That once
Used to win
And now
Getting to be
Upset
In my own blood
That is still
So unreal.

So goodnight to all
Farewells!
Now I can gossip
About Death
That so far
May happen,
Just happen
Tonight.

Never in a backdrop
I wanted to paint images
Of windows shattered

Caste into boxes
Smashed together like trains

I melted wisdom
In complex rain

I waited for blisters
I screamed from callus
I waited for malice

I wanted to paint images
Without being told
I wanted to paint images
Without being sold

Science did not fail me, nor I it.
The age of commitment, of the unconditional
Fell amid the rubble, after the Bombs
Of nuclear autumn.

So in an embrace of burning tongues
We lay briefly, sporadically
Amid delicious sunset passion
That each of us will remember
In the minute before sleep,
The second before death.

Perhaps every true scientist has known it,
This ambivalent lust
For the succulent food
That deepens your hunger.

Kekule followed a single night’s dream;
Newton pursued his madness
In a backward race of Order and Law.
Einstein rode a starry stallion
Of hard-charging, time-driven Libido.
Bohm, the fractal infinitude of wonder.

Science, your hair gave off light,
Your lips brushed my every nerve
With the imprint of despair.
And you always gave enough
To make me ask “what more?”

You come running back because you expect her to be there.
You don't have the slightest clue of how much it hurts her.
But there you are, digging deeper for that love that you don't deserve.
Because she thinks it is real, but little does she know that it is all a game.

You don't want her because you love her or because you care for her.
You don't want her because you admire her or because it was the little things that she said and did.
You don't want her because you think she is beautiful or because she was worth remembering.

You want her because you can have her.
You want her because you know she will take you back.
You want her just because you know that you can always have her.
And she is so clueless to see this all.

Because she wants you, for all of those unexplainable reasons.
Because she sees the good that no one else can.
She sees the strong-willed heart that has been hurt so many times by life's untimely struggles.
She sees what no one else can see.

Her heart is an open, abandoned, and run down house that the poor take refuge in.

They don't take refuge because they choose to.

They take refuge because it is the only thing that can help them survive.
Because it is a roof over their head, protecting them from natures death.

They take refuge because they need to survive.

You take refuge because you need to survive.

She takes refuge because she helps you survive.

When they stripped me of the life in my bones
I looked to the stars,
and plucked the moon from its perch
with my lips.
And the rage in their fists
tried to pry it from my skull.
But they cannot win.
They may look down on us with their
hollow eyes that can do nothing but weep,
and their hungry mouths that spit ash.
But I know what hope is.
And They don't.
No matter how many times I am beaten
I swear that the birds that sing in my chest
will always be louder than them.
Tell me what holy is,
and I will tell you of the love in my veins.
Tell me why you hate so much,
and I will tear it apart with my shame.
I will split the night open with my words.
I will sweep up the ashes with my rage.
They cannot win.
Not when your eyes look through me like that.
And while you sew together my wings,
tell me of the love letters that God left
on your windowsill.
Tell me of the fists that left those scars.
When they finally bring me to the gallows,
make sure that the noose is made
from the strings of guitars.
Carve my spine into the heart of a tree.
Spread my ashes over the lips of the sea.
Tell me what holy is.
And I will take you to that river full of sin.
I will write my poetry in the snow with my bones.
Tell me where Gabriel is.
And I will clean the blood from his crippled wings.
I will be an immovable sky.
The mouth of the river that never ceases to sing.
They'll separate us with razor wire,
but a few cuts won't hold me back.
They'll scream at us with their empty taboos.
But the paintings I've got tattooed on my ribs
aren't black and white like their words.
I'm done hiding my heartbeat.
I want to taste the words that come off my tongue,
to paint with the dirt beneath my nails.
Say my obituary was written like a poem.
So that when God greets me at his gates,
he will tell me that I was alive.
That I wasn't empty like Them.
But I'm tired.
And I've walked one too many miles in my
own shoes.
But it's impossible to stop,
when you've got wings flapping in your chest,
and a heart that burns like a lantern.
Remember me like this.
Spouting words from the darkest corners
of my soul.
Words that stick to you like a lover's kiss.
It's a song.
A manifesto.
An epitaph that will stay burned in your eyes
until you blink away the tears.
I'll keep walking if you just carry me
on your back for a few short steps.
A couple of shallow breaths.
Just let me rest.
So that the next words that come out of
my mouth will be “I love you”.
And you'll see that the bruises on my back
are the notes of music.
Tell me what holy is.
So I can tell you why I keep moving.
So I can spread these wings you've built for me,
with the skin I've shed
and my broken bones.
And I'll teach you how to fly too.
Because life has no rhythm
unless you give it a beat.
Tell me what holy is.
And remember
that we
are not.

While we are not done sleeping,
the early day awakes.
Beginning up above-
As lemon yellow drips across the sky
Crimson bleeds into the clouds
Gold beams spotlight shadows
Radiating from their ever burning host.
Sweet orange is squeezed onto the horizon
As the firey sunshine glows, no longer by itself:

Emrald fire begins to dance upon the ground,
Letting lime find itself in the early morning grass.
Ivy creeps between the smallest places
And jade paints itself into the leaves.

Sapphire jewels rain down
Falling into indigo waves.
Cerulean lakes shimmer upon a frozen land
As cobalt sheds itself into the depths
And navy darkness smudges everything.

All while we are sleeping.

The painter wakes up early,
Careful not to miss it all.