March 04, 2011 - 7:06 p.m.
hang with me
the only constant in my life
has been disatisfaction
and doubt
a problem of language
and deed
plural and singular
indeed it is linguistic... i cannot say
what it is that compels me
to revisit
this moments of pain
of me and you
so much a part,
we two,
white and cold
i meet you
on my knees
and force myself to pour out my secrets
the suspicion that I will never
ever
hold it together
and someone, other than myself
will find out
who could understand this
when I don't
So full of hope
"If you do me right, I'm gonna do right by you"
The singular focus of nearly three decades, come to crux and crossroad
a crutch
propped up on my pretty words,
in pretty heels, feet too big to ever be dainty
I wear my bruises as sign and proof
that the mighty words
do fail and fall
clumsily
from this mouth,
so bursting with desire
to do right
and be parted
in worship
to a worthy cause
aside from myself,
a cause lost,
years spent in devotion,
broken resolutions
and confessions that this may not
result
in the miracle I'd hoped for.
It is a singular problem
but rarely rings true.
The singular focus - that fearful 'what if'
I am a foxhunt,
a ruse
a thicket
thick with intent
a nest,
full of hornets
stung lips
ready to resolve this
to absolve me
of the forced smile
when inside I am so unsure.
posture of confidence. readiness. cracked.
That hunt begins, so much in earnest,
trailing the signs of hunted, hunter, prey and victim,
slipping in tracks I cannot make out in this heat, in this chill
in this changing weather
I feel death on my tracks,
heart racing and afraid, yet loving
that can still feel anything at all
after all this
alive
I have been anxious
since you left
because although I put on a brave face
through brave words
my fledgling heart barely fits in this nest, bursting, and unready,
afraid of the fall.
Gathering twigs and scraps of the past to build space for you, to swell my heart, room for you to fit,
I scramble
to make a home on this shaking limb
afraid
the directions I have been following
have put me out
flawed connections, loose moors and a windswept outlook, ready to be swept away, afraid of it still
Fox. Rabbit. Rabbit. Fox.
- hunted down, inviting this chase
my words do not come easy
not like my breath and my desire
scrambling for a way out, some hole to dodge down, to disappear
unready for teeth to sink
flesh deep,
cut, by my own devices,
trailing blood
for you to find me,
afraid that when you do, I will have chewed off my own foot and called it lucky
Perhaps I will save you from the trouble of me.
Perhaps I will not be lucky for you
no matter
how bad I want it.
I scent myself out,
knowing
I have always wanted this,
wanted to be caught
self-sabotaging
caught
in my own traps and snares
as usual
trusting that this is the fate of it
all roads lead to the past
is this true?
And these words don't come out, when I'm thinking of my escape (from what? from me? from feeling? the past that I can't seem to outrun, that follows intent
and relentless, a trip wire that I feel
each time I sense that I may be falling
I remember it
like Oedipus, cautionary, fatal,
the etched memory of limbs tied and the uneasy feeling that it was only a matter of time, cheated
but only just
this survival of the heart is tentative,
only a hare ahead of the inevitable end
jaws wet and hungry,
tasting happiness
only makes the knowledge of its dangers more poignant
an appetizer
rabbit on a track
the illusion of freedom
same fate
same race
same end
different dog
same motive
but always the dog.
Back to those words, the ones on repeat, relentless, inescapable and circular, without angles, but sharp,
deceitful and worming,
"the canker in this state is you"
they purge themselves
on the edge of my resolve
tip of tonge
as I plan to be good
to be better
than I have been
but I cant even
be good to myself. I perjure my resolve
impaled on sharp teeth, thinking better of it.
And I'm afraid I will have said too much
catching up with my body
only
when the worst is done
this brave face cracks in the harsher lights
and I cannot stomach the things I have thought about
weakly, allowing my wild imagination
to follow your steps and plot my own retreat, unwilling to let you hurt me first, again
as I have been -
retaliation against some unplanned defeat
when you did not know
I had let you in
so far,
but I have felt you here, I'm my thoughts
miles away
miles away.
I am a foxhunt,
a nest, for a fledgling heart
make-shift in a windstorm
too fragile to withstand the gusts of my own bravado and 'conviction'
I call my own bluffs,
plan my recovery
you know all of this,
you know none of this
this struggle, which I sense you know
too
well.
how will I land, how will I fall, if you have swept me off my feet?
I make these assertions - in a posture of confidence, completely unconvinced myself, I make it
hoping you will not take it,
not take me up,
hoping you will not see me deflate
I state
the case I want to be true
"I wouldn't want to jeopardize this"
Neither would I. You wont, I tell you, hoping to hold out for that truth. Wanting to be bigger than fear and panic and this feeling that all it would take to reel back would be that fatal flaw fleshed out...
I have the desire to offer the world, when what I really mean is the world and my heart, which cannot withstand the world as I have known it.
99 percent of it is true, but it is that final part that breaks me - the part where I give you leave and hope you don't
leave me to invent and wonder and worst-case scenario myself into the corner
backed against my own words, so well intentioned. Wanting so badly to offer choice, afraid that it will not be the right one - skeptical that if I will the hand I will question the pointed finger, with pointed questions in my mind. I want to be chosen, singled out,
but I do not want to have to ask
I say go, but mean go,
and think of me.
truth coming at the price of these hours of sleep
in the hopes that by speaking
I may make it so
much easier to free you
than let you choose it alone
and risk knowing that you chose it without any help from me;
the word 'go'
crosses my lips
involuntarily.
I untie my own stays, secure, at least, in having some minor say
in coming undone
in being let go,
loosing myself ..
bare of truth, pretending against pretense
I want to be possessed
hunted and haunted
pinned down
'be mine?'
she asks,
wanting to be,
but unready
to be made -
for fear of being unmade and undone.
slipknot
you are a slippery slope
because I will never be happy
in this state of attraction
to risks and odds
without a foot hold
I rely
on myself
to save me
wanting so badly for it
to be you
without traction
on this ground, with this past
with my sights set on you
I lean
uphill and ask
for endurance
for myself, and these obstacles
I erect
in my own defense
and perhaps in yours
I ask, for patience, for you
with me and my ghosts
for a chance to see this top
or bottom out, to find
relief and a ledge,
to lean back and feel myself
held, suspended from my doubt, and still curious to see
that edge
as I pour myself over
into the whiteness
of my thoughts
vacillating between empty and full
I hold hope out in these hands
brimming, and wide
wanting
to find you
cracked open with hands out,
tentative,
too.
