Disillusionment:

seeing the ridiculous --


ignoring beauty.

In the depth of the night,
when the crickets and cicadas
are holding my pain,
and they chirp as each tear wets the pillow,
I would like for you to hold it too.

To be fully seen is to be
a closed book with a lock,
for he who has the key.
He who cannot wait for the night
to come and let his pain be held
and also hold hers.

He prepares himself and reads
a page or two a day,
immersing himself more and more
in the story of her.

To be fully seen is to know well—
well,
he could grab a pen and scribble all over,
add a page or two,
write instead of you.
Yet give him the pain, and the pen and the markers,
excited to see what he'd do.

Because you have his book, too,
and all you want to do is highlight,
draw a rose or two,
plant a kiss or two,
where the scars are visible,
where the pages are torn.

When it feels like too much—
two people and two books—
to be fully seen
is what I am here for:
to open the book of my heart
and my life
with hands trembling,
with eyes caught,
with heart open.

Did you throw away the key?
Forget it...
I want to read your book, too.
For every page that ends with a question,
I'll make sure to add my answer to my book.

To be fully seen,
as a soul, naked,
floating in space,
with you,
you can let go,
with all my secrets,
with all my questions,
with my book.

You can tear it to pieces if
you so decide.
With my heart trembling,
and a bag of markers,
I'll return your book and the key
and be glad I was fully seen.
At least, I tried to be.

Sometimes, no matter how much you explain,
the person cannot read your book well,
nor remember the details
carefully underlined by you.

Maybe, just maybe, the closure is to see
it's not the quality of the book;
maybe the genre's just not his cup of tea.

I often wonder
whether in those books you read
you ever read my name
between the lines

like an unexpected gift
or unfortunate rift
like a rifle aimed at you
or flowers handed to you

do you ever feel like I am there?
staring back at your weary eyes
do you ever stop and think back?
the love we never got to share...

a poisonous thought, come evening
I wonder and wonder and wander
to you, the birthmark on your wrist
the poems you write, the meaning you twist

between the lines
did you ever wonder?

quietude of love
everlastingly beautiful
rambunctious excitement
effervescent life
never, yet, the twain shall meet

between the lines
did you ever wonder about me?

Unfortunately

none of my birthday guests know --


how to celebrate.

~
I.
Killing Mary Poppins
with a spoonful of sugar,
the sugar from the medicine
on the other side of town,
the town called Silent Hedges
And A Bit Of Fluff.

II.
Only a display model,
her name is Marmalade;
skin white like the moon,
she wears her ****** stranger dress;
one of her sisters is dying,
the other never lived;
God is a far off concept,
the fuchsia colored ball on
an overhead power grid
points her way to salvation.

III.
Morning became something else:
bright decline,
cold things start to burn,
tragic saxophone
among the beckoning,
everything's a symptom:
tax exiles, imperialists,
girls talking nitrous
--mouths full of soil,
Virginia Reel around the fountain
(do-si-do),
ready to buy up impossibles
as the dominoes fall.

IV.
Memory is a chemical
to the girl who cried champagne,
like ceiling stars
during the prodigal summer,
she played the game
on all fours,
and found a drawer
full of quarantine polaroids,
some with blood in her mouth,
others, of rain on her birthday.
~

I fell over the other day,
Silly and embarrassing really,
Also ****** painful and in truth?
Avoidable!

But it got me thinking because
I was pulling on a rope when it happened,
A rope that then gave way,
It doesn't matter how,

And as I fell
I grasped that natural fibre cord
Even harder as if it
Even then would save me

From the painful landing,
No breaking fall,
No twist or roll just falling
Holding a slack hempen line,

But we all do this in life,
We hold our dreams long past
The point where they
Even slightly may come true,

We grasp them ever tighter
Even as they slip through the fingers
Of our hearts
And lonely souls

Until we land as I did
In a heap - covered not in mud
But in the knowledge not sjust
That it is over (whatever "it" may be)

So much as that it never was

Nor in fact would ever be

A race horse lives,
Indeed is bred and cherished,
To run and to gallop and to lead the field,
To leap improbable heights
And depths,
And above all this to win,

Not to fall at the first,
Or the second,
Or the third fourth and fifth,
They are creatures of
Air and thunder,
Of flying hooves and sods of earth,

Sometimes indeed they fall,
Then rise riderless
And confused,
Unsure where to go or
Indeed how fast
Or even indeed why?

But these are gathered
Gently from the field,
And returned via expensive
Wagons to the stable,
Where lads and girls and vets
Are waiting to get them right,

A veritabe deluge of love
And care and expertise
Awaits these amazing equine
Flights of fancy,
Whatever their mistakes,
Whoever they threw from the saddle,

That partnership between
Jockey and horse breeds
Love and forgiveness
No matter the error,
No matter the pain of heart
Or soul,

But what of the horse
That breaks a leg,
That does not rise
But screams too long,
Too loud?
Alas that horse however fine,

That horse is always shot,

My horse was showing so much promise,
Fit and healthy,
Much loved and admired
Fresh fed and groomed to a shine,

But a shiny coat and tack doesn't matter much,
What goes on the track counts more,
Amidst the thundering hooves
The sweat and flying turf

It's the placing at the line
That counts,
And my horse?
She fell

At the first.