You and I pretend to keep the extra heartbeats and moods that follow — wagons loaded full of words to pull against the bright sky empty because we cannot fly.
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Tag: love
Bureaucracy
The way they tell it: BE CAREFUL! — a spell is so much more than words said out loud. You need a protection circle three pounds of salt sage to cleanse the air; no personal gain no love incantations absolutely no commerce with evil spirits or demons or anyone misunderstood. “Only do what you’d will be done to you.” Yeah. A labyrinth of requirements while want weaves itself into this scented man that free woman heat and smile and yes, sweet feeling skin, all good and bad and eager to be taken outside the safe circle past the strange bureaucracy that once belonged to the church and still stops magic in its tracks.
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Holy Card
Don’t put me in a coffin. Much better to find a small box for ancient gray ash that could be Vesuvius or that little dog I used to pet. I want no more me, no more memories etched around empty eyes or lonely hands that would’ve carried more, so much more, but were robbed by other death, nearer loss and love that still-chokes all earth. No, burn me into nothing for I endure no more.
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AfterTalk
All we’ve talked has burned, embers smoothing silly me, impatient you — until we ease into each other to enthrall Dark.
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Venture
I once fell in love. I once found a prince. He stood on a beach dark against the rolling surf, full with the universe. I once flew into daring rough hands, mute, lucky, held — an odd fish silent and ready, silent as hope. “Why couldn’t you be a woman?” In rowdy hands I wiggled the signs, did my best to become sexy, curvaceous, something — but slipped lonely-homeward back to the sea that rushed for me.
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“Doctors”
New doctors are like puppies. They have to play with all their toys and can be wildly cute. Fresh out of obedience school, all they know is rules and cutoffs; they cannot yet lay by the fire because they are the fire and have trouble being still. Old doctors, like old dogs, aren’t so eager. They know our secret heart, the love we’ve spent against coming back and smile as we wave So Long.
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AfterTalk
All we’ve talked has burned, embers smoothing silly me, impatient you — until we ease into each other to enthrall Dark.
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Sea Wall with Mountain in Background
“Do you love him?”
We walk the Sea Wall.
He studies the sound,
Grouse Mountain, green-black
cross-hatch of hemlock and fir.
“No.”
“Sure?”
He talks past water
lapping round rocks,
love near water
breathing distant trees.
“Because it’s okay if you do.”
A canopy.
I love this place.
“I love that mountain.”
He loves the mountain.
Vancouver.
He loves me.
All that love.
“Two trees in a forest, eh?
You and me.”
Side by side,
friend I love;
side by side,
roots entwined.
“Yes, you and me.”
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Two Trees
I couldn’t help it, leaving. It must be the way I’m made. They spoke God, said I'd wreck my soul with that abomination — so I chose the other tree, blue-green against the same sky, splashed its dark on my face and fell sound asleep as they raged beneath an equally good tree preparing for my salvation.
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I’ve Tried
I’ve tried to not want my City, to make life here, far from the streets and hills and men that brought me life in such breadth that I gulped lust at every turn, bodies and books and sweet blessed fog, busses, parks, crazies four floors beneath screaming “HELP! HELP!” though there’s only a streetlamp, three-hundred-dollar theater seats steps from human defecation (it’s not pretty) — tether-bridges to windy and windy headlands and mystical beaches and sex — where to walk is to be enveloped, in love. I tried to love her instead of him, once upon a time, way back when lies meant caring, and my brain and niceness said I shouldn’t hurt anyone so I drowned Aaron in hope and went on screwing and became good at it and talked about; but each night, laying on top of her sweet and forgiving body, sculpted ballers did sweaty lay-ups in my room, in my head in me and if it wasn’t for those players, she never would’ve cum, so it seemed like it was okay. But it wasn’t. I tried Return of the Native. I tried The Glass Menagerie. Everything by Faulkner. All I wanted was Sassoon, maybe a little Woolf, but I’d lock myself in my room to read words words words, and I’d yawn yawn yawn — while A Room of One’s Own whispered slyly to Suicide in the Trenches: “He’s missed the point. “He’s really missed the point.” Sushi Streisand Dances with Wolves mango con limón my dear friend who wants to be dear so he must be but… no-fap novenas TED Talks on writing guys who aren’t built who really aren’t built who seriously aren’t built great personalities no-fap try try try John Cage no-fap “Thy will be done” Los Angeles Christianity — when all along, sweet lullaby, sleeps the not-tried, the true, until I put on a jacket against cold San Francisco freedom and smile destiny.
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G Beckman 