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March 24, 2008 - 7:22 p.m.

Generosity
Lack
words of love
forgotten place of origin, space of love
empty
emptied of meaning
I am sending you nothing but happiness
nothing
I hear
and happiness,
I have it already
but thank you
i try to say it openly
without curled lips
spitting at the image of Dorian
becoming uglier
only to me
I would not paint you
---would not dare to
I have come so close to destroying the picture of you in my head
I feel nothing about wanting the past
I feel a displaced regret about a missing love -
that is not you
but another, lost, not because of you,
but somehow, sort of,
---yes.

---It started out bitterly, as a shoring up of supplies, a patching of holes, of places and moments of weakness, covering over the places where I felt a space, something that was there and, having gone, left an emptiness.
---But then, I looked further, to the place where oxygen is made, and realized that in spite of my anxiety, there was plenty there. I started blowing you a balloon, to send off, towards you - where you are - full of hope, happiness and well-wishes.
---I want these things for you. But I want to know that my balloon will not meet with pointed actions, words and that it will fill some place inside you, where you need a shared piece of, of what? not me, but something else, that I can give you; Support, love, the things you used to come to me for,
---the things I want to believe I could ask of you. This was an interrupted thought.
---
---There was never a surplus of air
with you
---close
the air was close
the feelings were close and closed
we were impenetrable together
now, impenetrable apart
we are on two sides of the world and I want to have knowledge
a tunnel to the keep
to keep you close
but walled, away, where I cannot see, or be hurt by you
a known threat, better to suspect
than to sense it, back turned
I want to be the one with a catapult
but all I have are cats,
and they are not moats, they are not hot oil or burning arrows,
the tiny beasts
your messengers
sounds, not words
it makes me remember how comfort with you felt
clawed and whiskered, a heavy weight in the night
sharp and soft at once
never meaning to hurt

now i don't know

when they curl themselves around me, they are storing up their future forgiveness,
for heaps of kibble on the carpet,
scratches across antiques,
chips of wood, tufts of fluff, scratches unintended
I can never be angry past the initial moment of surprise and pain

but you
--for you, from you, with you,-
i have depleted my stores of calm
my memories of softness
----that insulate me from anger.
that are the other side of surprise at pain
I don't remember anymore, what it is to be walked carefully for, to be warmed, without wondering what breach was occuring, what gate left open, what tunnel or wall stormed, leaving me open to the next moment when I would find myself
without a can opener, without a roommate, without a friend, without a telephone, or
coldness in the eye, tears in mine,
cold grey of stairwell, stains on walls that are solely yours, not mine,
with tears in the fabric around our past, worms having feasted, slept, changed and flown
the fabric was a good shield, but not strong
-----moths drawn away to a new light
I don't know how to repair it
thread bare
to bare it
to make it bare new fruit
to fix this root
this tree that is at once, many things
tree of knowledge, life, offshoot of seed, water, light, spring and winter
tree, well seasoned, strong, weatherer of many storms, carved in its trunk with hearts and arrows through
initials, carved, crossed- out
carved anew
again
scarred and still strong,
is one half of us dying
----the part that was supposed to continue on?
is there a worm in this heart?
if we look back, through the rings, to ages ago, will we find the splinter that split this trunk?
Do we care to?
Or will we swing in its branches,
carve new poems there,
turn our back now, unafraid of the sun, step out of the shade, but forget what relief its shade brought
once.
we played here,
how can i split it for kindling, burn it, to get out the worm, it will not be a metaphor for my heart, which is already in pieces, from that first time.
split it for kindling, my heart, already splintered
i fear sharp edges
and your words are sharp
i cannot see anymore
what is behind them
and, after too many staircases, boxes and cold nights
i no longer trust the hands behind the axe
I know that the cut will do me good,
that beneath this thick skin
i am still green
if you bend me I will peel and leak
lead me to water
i will still be thirsty
but I do not know if i will recognize my root
that tree that now looks like raw material
for building
will it be shelter? will it be a weapon?
who will draw the plans
can i trust the trojan horse when I look it in the mouth --
over the phone, will i see into your head? your heart?
will I wait for the army to unload, or see the gift for what it is?
will there be any difference between intention, action and result.
I am tired of warring,
I am tired of waiting,
I am tired of not trusting
but I have come to far to go back to the tree
I just want to know
what has become of it?
what will we make of it
when we cannot seem to agree what we made it for


 

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