lopesided:

My Heart            

        after Frank O’ Hara

I will not nod all the time
nor will I quiet my voice,
I cannot meet either half way,
or all the way, I’d rather sit
in the darkness of living
rooms and small closets—
I want to be alive, a mess,
a putting together of moments
that scream and silence
all at once, I want to cry
and laugh, and walk 
on trails heavily forested,
that occasionally give way
to life beyond: all lit windows 
and fireplaces and sundays
gathered ‘round a table, alive.

My Heart            

        after Frank O’ Hara

I will not nod all the time
nor will I quiet my voice,
I cannot meet either half way,
or all the way, I’d rather sit
in the darkness of living
rooms and small closets—
I want to be alive, a mess,
a putting together of moments
that scream and silence
all at once, I want to cry
and laugh, and walk 
on trails heavily forested,
that occasionally give way
to life beyond: all lit windows 
and fireplaces and sundays
gathered ‘round a table, alive.

… — I mean the conscious heart, the fact that we are the only things in the entire universe that know true consciousness. We’re the only things—leaving religion out of it—we’re the only things in the world that know spring is coming.
T.S. Eliot

T.S. Eliot

I had fallen off before,
so this time the bruising
felt more like punch
than a war—.

lopesided:

A Clear Midnight
       after Walt Whitman

Long past the hour my body finds a stillness,
limbs unfurl like summer grass, and I, away from heavy thought,
revel in the silence of breathing, a turned page, of skin grazing 
skin, thinking how deep the dark goes
and you in me.

My soul, the night should smell faintly of desire, spring and all the quiet.
 

43/365*

lopesided:

We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.

                                                                 -Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov

fearing the loss of meaning,
I sheltered my words
beneath my tongue,
relied on movement:
a nod, a blink,
a curl of the lips,
an extended palm.  

lopesided:

There are things
I can’t unread:
the feel of skin,
like Braille,
beneath my fingertips,
or on my tongue,
your name spelled
out in every
night, in street lights,
and moon.

I am an empty well,
all crumbling bricks
& brackish moss,
hollow, where the plink-
plink of every coin rattles
my stonefaced heart.

Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall in love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin - find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that that was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.

lopesided:

there’s a soreness in my core
like burning wood & splinters

& nothing, not even the hum
of spring against my bedroom window

can heal this pain.  I think I’d like 
to be sung to as if I were the Queen

Bee tucked away in some corner
warmed by the sound of honey

dripping between combs
& bodies vibrating as one. 

lopesided:

A Clear Midnight
       after Walt Whitman

Long past the hour my body finds a stillness,
limbs unfurl like summer grass, and I, away from heavy thought,
revel in the silence of breathing, a turned page, of skin grazing 
skin, thinking how deep the dark goes
and you in me.

My soul, the night should smell faintly of desire, spring and all the quiet.
 

lopesided:

there’s a soreness in my core
like burning wood & splinters

& nothing, not even the hum
of spring against my bedroom window

can heal this pain.  I think I’d like 
to be sung to as if I were the Queen

Bee tucked away in some corner
warmed by the sound of honey

dripping between combs
& bodies vibrating as one. 

And maybe we don’t come
to the end of our triumph
as fluidly as Icarus
plunging into the sea did,
for falling takes time,
a skill, patient like the wrinkles
in hands that pluck away
with words for fear
of ever getting too close
to knowing what to do
with wax wings & bird feathers,

The humidity has
made my hair dance,
hanging pirouette curls
and dips, a tangle of mess,
damp—a summer cottage
upon my neck
windows slightly ajar.