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because the what comes after
is still more alluring
than the what is.
it isn't about a dream
or a crayoned fantasy
on construction paper.
it is a forgotten memory,
rustling like a fever
in the deep part of my bones
that i can't reach to scratch.
when i think of You
i think of the best times--
the ones that make all of this
such a beautiful wasteland,
a live wire of unbridled heartbeat.
remembering us then is different
than what they call faith,
because faith is believing
in that which cannot be proven.
i used to wake up in Your house
and eat breakfast in Your kitchen.
i've followed You to the secret place
and fallen asleep to the sound
of Your pen on the sky.
i will endure this summer camp of sorts
until the fever shatters my bones
like a prisoner making his escape.
then we will stay up
all night like we used to,
screaming and dancing,
laughing and sighing.
not poetry, but close enough. a song i wrote tonight...it sounds like a mix between jump, little children's "cathedrals," switchfoot's "let your love be strong," and the country of egypt in general...untitled.
if we existed...
if we existed...
if we could live above this life
i know i'd never cry
cause we'd never fight.
you make promises...
you make promises...
that only Superman could keep.
so although you mean well
i know they're always empty.
i remember in the beginning
we were selfless and so forgiving.
even time stopped to let us soar.
but what gets me down
more than the gravity,
is that we're perfect...
is that we're perfect...
but only circumstantially.
behind the sunrises...
behind the silences...
behind the endless day to day,
we aren't tired. we aren't worn out.
we're awake.
it's all so delicate...
it's all so delicate...
this balance we try to maintain.
but this is bigger than anything we could save.
we're such children in its face.
i remember in the beginning
we were selfless and so forgiving.
even time stopped to let us soar.
but what gets me down
more than the gravity,
is that we're perfect...
is that we're perfect...
but only circumstantially.
if we existed...
if we existed...
if we could live above this life.
i could wake up and be yours in the morning,
like i'm yours tonight.
i remember in the beginning
we were loving more than we were thinking
and reality was easily misplaced.
but what gets me down
more than the gravity,
is that you loved me
and we were perfect
but only circumstantially.
The night isn't dark; the world is dark.
Stay with me a little longer.
Your hands on the back of the chair--
that's what I'll remember.
Before that, lightly stroking my shoulders.
Like a man training himself to avoid the heart.
In the other room, the maid discreetly
putting out the light I read by.
That room with its chalk walls--
how will it look to you I wonder
once your exile begins? I think your eyes will seek out
its light as opposed to the moon.
Apparently, after so many years, you need
distance to make plain its intensity.
Your hands on the chair, stroking
my body and the wood in exactly the same way.
Like a man who wants to feel longing again,
who prizes longing above all other emotion.
On the beach, voices of the Greek farmers,
impatient for sunrise.
As thought dawn will change them
from farmers into heroes.
And before that, you are holding me because you are going away--
these are statements you are making,
not questions needing answers.
How can I know you love me
unless I see you grieve over me.
**this is a poem from Meadowlands which featured a lot of poems based on the characters of The Odyssey, particularly Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus...this poem is from Penelope's persepective and just really spoke to me when I came across it last night.
there is a song.
i remember the day i wrote it.
the piano faced the quilt
and the sun was on my right shoulder.
i saw two men outside
with two infants
in the little kangaroo pouches.
they seemed happy,
comfortable,
free.
i thought they were together
and had perhaps adopted the babies.
lovers and their new children.
i wrote the song then.
it was brilliant, even i thought so.
the chords so heavy.
the melody like a rocket.
i loved it without thinking,
that instant.
afterwards i looked out and saw
the men and the babies
with two women.
their wives? more likely.
disillusionment can be a bitch.
most often in retrospect.
i remember the night i wrote
the alternate version
to that song.
draped in your hoodie
like a child in a collapsed tent,
smoking a black,
walking to buy a midnight snack alone.
it's funny because
the new words came so fast--
faster than the old ones.
but the old ones came from reality
and these new words were from somewhere else.
a place i could almost make out in my mind.
a place i thought i might be someday, i guess.
i came back with food.
i slept in your bed.
the new lyrics were an omen
that i didn't understand
because it was premature.
i wonder if i wrote both of them
because i loved the song that much.
because i knew i would want to
sing it forever and ever,
whether you came or went.
let me in on a secret.
let me in on a whim.
just open the damn door
and let me in.
because the what comes after 
