She never lied, she never lies,
She just ignores.
The truth,
I tried to tell her how I feel,
She just ignored,
The proof.
"Then try to think of something else", she said.
"Write the other way"
Whenever she'd drink and rant like this,
I'd stay out of her way.
Because “real”, for her, seemed to signify,
I tried it once, but should probably try again.
I was real with you, that once,
Only, later,  to find
That those imploring me to "relax",
Insisting things would be different,
If only I could "flow", If only I could "see"...
You said, “be real”, and now the memory
Just turns my ******* stomach
Since all of those whose mantra called,
For a plea to just “be real”
Were the least capable, almost to the man,
Of being anything close to that.

"I just want to have ***", you said.
An unexpected non-sequitur.
We had been sipping tea or coffee or something.
We had been reminiscing about the old street,
Back when none of us were single.
"yeah, I miss it, too", I said.

"No.  I mean right now", you corrected.
As I turned to see your face, it betrayed little.
Impassive but alert.  Warm but not intimate.  No passion.
I was willing, but remember: this never happened to me.
Something seemed wrong about it,
But was there any harm?

I asked if I could think about it.
You thought about it, too, as we watched a movie.
Halfway through some Ridley Scott epic, we held each other.
We touch-explored and memory only tells me this is true:
With no further reason beyond the will to be,
I soon lay naked there with you.  
It wasn't love but, then again,
This never happened.
Awkward, at first, we found our place,
Our touch and pull, our rhythm and pace.
"no kissing", you admonished, speaking only that.

Though I rest spent and full inside you,
That was your concern.
Too personal.
Too intimate.

We held each other for a while,  you left within the hour,
Saying, "this never happened", and my only thought,
My only answer to you,
Was a solemn confirmation,
That nothing could be more true.

Wednesday 17 December 2014

This one was beautiful.  I sculpted it myself.  Did you know that?
It took years and, if I’m completely honest, I was overly fond of it.
I’d made many, of course.  I had to.  We all had to.
Cupped, round, and smooth, heavy in my hand like a clay pigeon.
So beautiful...

Somehow it began in light,
Naïveté and youth.
I used to say it just felt right,
And free from all abuse.

At  first it formed a perfect ring,
Of lies I thought were true.
I bring it, now, to end the thing.
I bring it, now, to you.  

Because every thing must have its place,
Every thing in its own time.  
This beautiful thing has failed it's need,
Inspiring only pain and rhyme.

-but may it live in memory, still,
May the growth outweigh the pain.
When pain brings growth beyond your will,
Remember fondly, this thing, again.

So why did I smile when you asked me to hold it?
Why did I find it fitting that you made me load it into the trap?
Why were the lines formed by your braced shoulder,
your leveled forearm, your
outstrectched, cradled hand,
so beautiful...
when you inclined your head,
Closed one eye, and,
Steady, raised your sights?

Why did I love you so much for pulling the trigger?

I said, "God, I love you".
She smiled and said I'd do in a pinch.

I said, "but I need you to do something for me..."
She looked into my eyes and said, "What's that"?

I said, "I need you to tell me something".
She said, "All right.  What's that?"

I said, "repeat after me"
I said, " 'wes...' "

She stared back into my eyes and said, "wes..."
She laughed a little chuckle in her throat.

I said, "no, this is serious..."
I looked into her eyes.
I prompted her:  " 'wes...' "

She smiled, saying "wes..."
I said, " 'stop ******' around' "

She said, "stop ******' around"
she laughed again, adding, "wes".

I smiled and said, "no, try it seriously  now"
She said, "wes.  seriously.  stop ******* around..."

She laughed.
I said, "want to go back to bed and fool around?"
She laughed.
I laughed.
We went back to bed.

the pain of holding back the flood.
only one way out and it's through.
face it.  be strong, it won't take you.
feel it, become it, trust that madness.
revel in it's starkness, it's truth.  it's own reality.
because when you come out the other side,
you may be bruised,
bloodied,
there will be parts, even, missing.
but you will survive improved,
intact,
lovable and beautiful.

This thing, the words and all?  I was trying on a new skin.
It was made of the old -the familiar, too, but transformed.
Something added that could take root,
Take me out from the norm.
Take on a new identity.
Perform.
Squinting at a light, held at arm’s length:
My own spotlight.
So you could watch me act it all out,
Over and over, forever on the page.
but nothing ends as it began.
My troubles, my worries, my lust, my greed,
All fictionalized and petty.

Disgust and shame.
Anger and fear,
Are not advisable
Unless they bring about change.
Even those, now left behind.
Moulted.
Shedding my old skin.
Toughening up the new.

Pour one under the table for those who walk outside.  In memory of Spalding Gray, for what he meant to me...
    Thanks, “Spuddy”, for sharing your inner life.   Thanks for having the courage to bring so many troubles into the light.  You laughed at your troubles and allowed us a way to laugh at our own.  You put a voice to carrying an unbearable shyness or an excess of fear along with us as we go through life.  You strived to care when caring was out of fashion and in short supply.  Thanks for reminding us that life is the journey, and not only the destination.  You wrote a book.  You played a minor role in a feature film.  Those were some of your destinations.  When you shared your journey, you did it with humor, humility, and with love.  Thanks for reminding me that storytelling is all around us.  Thanks for reminding me that it need not be complex.  You were merely observant during your journey,  and you shared it through the lens of your own perception.
    I learned this January that life became unbearable for you.  If only we, your audience, could have comforted you or somehow stemmed the river; the flood that carried you to leave so early.  I would like to believe that, once you died, you might be able to hear our collective voice.  I imagine that you are able to see the people affected by your work, some inspired thus to create works of their own; tell their own awkward stories, sharing them as you shared yours.  I am far back in the line, and I eventually arrive at your table.  You flip a page in your spiral-bound notebook and take a sip of water before glancing up inquiringly.  I only have one thing to say, really.  “Thanks, Spalding.  Thanks for sharing”.