Oh my dear
She’s not an artist, she’s the girl who dates artists, hanging out in coffee shops and gallery openings and graffiti alleys waiting to pick up the next brooding creative type just to end up making him take her to the mall
She’s not an artist, though I’m sure she’s suffered with affair after affair with depressed narcissists
Dyed hair and damaged, that’s how you like them. When she leaves she becomes poetry and paintings and someone else’s work the only legacy she can leave behind someone else’s muse som actual artist’s grieving exultation
She’s not an artist and she doesn’t want to be. Who would want to be burdened with the destiny of creating what other people feel of building what does not exist, of decoding the extremes of human emotion into palatable expression for others to criticize and empathize and characterize in textbooks and classrooms and elite discussions and other meetings of snobbery
Oh yes, he fought her all the way home
I never thought, one day, I would not remember and not have you to ask exactly how it went, how it happened again
How you saw me – somewhere – I can’t remember
And you called me for a ride home
And you were at a party across the street from the apartment we briefly shared
Until I did the worst thing you can do to someone you love, and I found myself doing it with you to someone else I loved, answering your call in the middle of the night, picking you up so late that it was bright by the time we got to your mom’s house and she was out of town so I came in and you made me breakfast and I sat at your table, the dog at my feet, and you tinkered around in the kitchen and the cat skulked across the cold tile floor and the fresh dawn light made it all very clear how nice things could have been and how nice they would never be.
Who slayed Achilles?
How did you get down to the heel so fast? I felt like there was so much more body to go through, so much more discovery ahead, a long journey of pleasant scenery and secret passageways but we’re there already. YOu slidced my tendon and left me for dead, unable to walk away or follow you or do anything but stay, strangled with vicious words, callous actions, a few raging rants that left me in tears in hopeless confusion that the man I so adore can morph into such an animal, fangs and claws and patches of fur with moldy wounds between battle scars of past lives, past fights
Last night – you called and spoke to me so sweetly and within a day you rip me to shreds, starting with that mortal tear to that vial muscle rendering me useless unable to fight fair or steer clear of your instigation wave your sign, preach your line, you don’t get to decide when I’ve had enough
This year is going to be the year
Or maybe it’s next year
Or maybe it was last year
Or maybe there’s no arbitrary endpoints between the years and we’re all just winding down and there haven’t been years with you and years without you
Are you kissing someone at midnight?
A guy like you, of course you are.
I’ll be drowning in my own delusion
And of course cheap champagne
And typing in your number but deciding not to call and counting the years gone and predicting the years left and determining the turning point where it all went wrong but if they’re all just random points on a dead man’s old map
Maybe i’ve been bad all along
Can you feel our future?
You don’t want a future with anyone you just want to fall in love your whole life
And why not?
New touching, holding, kissing, the excitement of that first time legs opening, eyes widening
‘Stay up all night getting to know you instead of staying all night trying to sleep next to you again even though I’m sick of your breath your look, how you always get too drunk and break my glasses in the kitchen sink and how it used to be magnetic not forced like a chore, like an obligatory duty to keep you drained and not wandering not dreaming about the girl at the office who dresses like a slut and she knows it trying to get you to look at her, but you don’t want her either you just want to tell her enough stories to get a first kiss and if that’s good maybe more
You don’t pay whores for sex, you pay them to leave.
I’m going to put your pieces in the gun safe
Your letters, your cards, your notes, your scraps, your purple plaid peacoat, your shorts the cat peed on, your heartfelt crafts and artifacts,
That one bottle we drank and you saved and replaced the champagne with silk sunflowers
I’m going to spin the dial and forget the combination and carry it over my shoulder through the falling dusk, into the nights, into the woods, to an unmarked grave where I’ll bury our love, our years, our moments, when you made my life worth living and the sun stayed out logner and I never ate alone in front of the TV with nothing on
And they’ll find our love in 100 years or 1,000 years or far enough away so that it looks like a beautiful story, a time capsule of a fragment of our lives and hopefully not in just 10 years when we’re both still miserably alive, hating each other, proving your wildest dreams untrue.
I wish gravestones had mailboxes
It just makes sense, then I could tell you what you missed, what I did, how I fucked my life up all over again
And some spiritual messenger would take my letter up to the clouds
That’s where you go right?
The actual opposite of where we put you?
Suffocating beneath the dirt
Eroding into the environment
Melting back into the neglected earth
For future generations to abuse and destroy
How hopeful a future
With mounds of dirt
And no correspondence
I had a dream you got engaged at a McDonald’s in Paris.
And the ring was Yves St. Laurent (even though I don’t think he makes jewelry)
And you hadn’t meant to ask at Le MCDo
But the two of you stopped to get a Royale with cheese or whatever
And she saw the box sticking out of your bag
And you couldn’t wait and just asked her right there and thought
“What a funny story this will make for the newspaper announcement.”
Home is where the heart isn’t. Home is the elusive dream we cling to in a foreign place. When we are not there we long to return, when we are we yearn to escape. We spend our lives searching for home. The fence, the yard, four comforting walls. The American dream, the unachievable. Restless is the roamer, stir crazy is the homebody in a cabinet of fear. I’ve been looking for my home since the house on Central Park where my grandfather poured the cement and we squished our hands in the slow to congeal mass. Two transient decades: the suburban house with the white stucco walls, dilapidated dorm rooms, a roof with a view.
“You are not welcome here.” I don’t feel welcome here.
You were my home once when we talked about what to hang on the walls and which sheets to stretch across our bed. Cold feed and my own fatal flaws drove you out and I am homeless once again
Where do you go when you’re at the end of your rope but the road sprawls ahead? I squint to see the horizon, maybe a safe haven in the distance. Dust and debris cloud my view. When was the fire, I saw no flames, just the post-wreckage of charred promises and burnt hope. I run now, maybe my destination will materialize as my internal odometer spins wild.
The mile marker never changes. The loneliness spreads malignant aches through my body. My listless heart pumps only as necessary to prolong this never ending quest.
Even the freshest rays of the sunrise shed no light on my home, not even the shadow of the sunset casts upon a beacon. The mile marker never changes; the uphill trek has yet to descend. My feet have walked through my shoes.
Home is the recipient of the soldier’s letter, home is the next departing flight, home is the old house where your grandfather died that you can only drive past since your grandmother moved out. Home is the treasure we lust for so hard to never ever find.