12.10.2003

Finding Out

1
Spring.
(trying to fill the corners of a day with no corners)
And it hurt;
the emptying of myself
into a second too small,
yet the biggest of all of mine.
They say it is the time of rebirth;
the temper of May now settles toward summer -
toward inevitable never.
(struggling to stop a wheel that won't stop turning)
And she,
of all seasons,
she became the passing clouds of years and years
above a myriad of earths prior mine
that longing eyes glimpsed,
four fingers and a thumb extended
and never touching.
(breathing toward the slow, near-stagnant non-passage of time)

2
To that point,
when I knew finally, absolutely, abruptly
that you were what I had cowered to deny,
I held you,
a bar of wet soap threatening
to jump when squeezed,
and I tried, as Sisyphus tried,
watching the rock roll back down,
to expiate the churn of useless emotion,
smoldering in me like melted plastic,
with food and conversation,
with anything alien enough from thinking.

3
It all rose like an unwillingly brandished fate –
an unavoidable fulcrum
upon which all pivoted
and, like a cherry-bombed teeter-totterer,
all perished –
upon a sharp breath I couldn't restrain,
a twinge in the fossilized hibernation
I understood,
and fell with the finality of an executioner's ax
severing, justly, me.

4
I wanted so many things then, all at once:
to run, to scream, to breathe
into redundant expiration,
to grind out the granulated thoughts,
mash out the coagulated thoughts,
into pieces I could salvage, could understand,
and sift through them, picking out
the little parts of me I might want again someday.
(longing to vomit my emotion all over the carpet)
And then the sinking feeling,
giving up struggling and trading air for water,
trying to stand while I could feel
my insides dripping into my shoes,
my knees begging for the carpet,
my tears begging for the eyes
and I denying all of it
with a smirk and a flippant remark.

5
And why spring?
By the sarcastic tongues of angry fates?
By the resurrected, nail-pierced hands of Christ?
For the warmth of tears?
The buds of loneliness?
Totally undistilled, it blurred through me
with only a flash of myself,
a thousand fears and dreads
meeting, for the first time,
an air I no longer breathed,
but only viewed outsider-ish:
the greener grass
monsooned around me,
swelling into a grand unutterableness,
beating the guts I had grown comfortable with,
like the fury of a spoiled child,
like all the adrenaline surging
to meet the blood quickly vacating my veins.

6
And quiet.
(stuffing into attic boxes things I took for someday maybe granted)
Still the loud pulsing of emotion,
the heart pumping blood into the carpet not so far away
and yet a distance of slowly dripping years removed,
but quiet.
The cold struggle against acceptance,
an ancient dance, unrhythmic and familiar,
raging in a silent haze in a head a neck away from separation,
in a room with no windows or doors,
just a cloud of silence,
red, like the bleeding of hope in a single moment,
and austere, spartan,
exactly what it is and no more,
the candor of a mirror,
the glare of static water.
(struggling to frame existence against necessity and desire)
And this paradox of overwhelmed quiet and screaming panic
fills every part of me
like rainwater breathing into fresh potholes.