Pictures of Exes

May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

I have naked pictures of all of you. I could never get rid of them. Why would I? You were all so beautiful.

But of course I never look at them.

I just like to know they’re there. Reminders of moments not defined completely by melancholy. Memories of being loved.

Don’t worry; they are safe with me. The way you were. They way I am not.

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An Old Journal Entry: Ontology of a Lover

May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment

Have you read Plato’s Cratalyus? There’s a guy in it, I don’t remember his name, but he thinks that names are not arbitrary sounds, that names for things are arrived at because they somehow capture that thing in a way that no other name could. As if everyone, just by looking at the object, would arrive at the same name for it. Plato thinks that’s crazy of course, and maybe it is, but when I look at you I wonder.

Not many beautiful things have names that seem to capture the beauty of the thing, just in it’s name. Like beautiful is not really a beautiful word, per se. A heterological word. Neither is symphony really, or art, or…ocean. Or ceiling. Ceilings are beautiful things but ceiling is a horribly ugly word. For examples. Maybe window is a beautiful name for a beautiful thing. Wouldn’t you name it that? If you didn’t know it was called a window? Wouldn’t you look at it – or through it, rather – and say of course that’s called a window. Because it sounds sort of transparent. Revealing. Like you can sort of speak through it. It’s a perfect word for a window, window. Your name is like that, like window. Your name holds you inside it. Did you know that? It holds you. Somehow. Unexplainably somehow. The way that Beethoven’s Sixth can somehow sound like the most beautiful pasture even though pastures don’t actually sound anything like an orchestra or tonal harmony. Or the way Autumn Jazz looks exactly like autumn jazz sounds. I swear I knew your name before I knew your name. A name that sounds with perfect balance. All those a’s. Like Canada. Except but then the epilogue. The y. Like a coda. Softening the brief movements that precede it. Giving it a wholeness. Making it linger in your mouth for the briefest moment like the taste of kiss you don’t want to end. I want to hold it. Your name. Or lay upon it. Cover up with it. Surround myself with it. Crawl into it. Bury myself in it. And live there. Sometimes I think I do.

Do you ever think about what you would look like from an aerial photograph? I think you’d look like some kind of fountain. Or geyser. The way your hair looks as if every strand is in motion all the time. Pouring. Spiraling downward. Or perhaps upward. You couldn’t tell from a photograph. So you could be a vortex, instead of a fountain. What color is your hair? It’s a metaphysical enigma, the color of your hair. Anyone who thinks that colors are queer in the way they seem to exist simultaneously in various locations but in the same form has never seen your hair. Because your hair is the color of no other colored thing. Looking at it is looking at something that is completely unique in this world. There are not many things that work like that. Perceptual experiences which are wholly unique. Not even many faces. But your hair is one. One of the few. And God is it a gorgeous one. It is royal, is really the only way to describe it. Royal.

What color are your eyes? You have chameleon eyes. They follow the same sort of enigma as your hair. Except they are capable of shift. They keep your soul from being seen. You are lucky for that I think. They keep secrets. Why did I never tell you until this morning that you have beautiful eyes? I think it all the time. If sometimes when we are talking and I seem distracted it’s more often than not because I am contemplating your eyes. They are terribly distracting eyes. Wonderfully so. Sometimes while we are making love I get the feeling like you are tasting me with your eyes. Can you taste with your eyes? I think maybe you can. Don’t you think it’s fantastic that I and eye are homophones in English? I think that’s fantastic.

Your mouth is a vowel. Your mouth is a nocturne. Your mouth is the answer to the question. Your mouth is a palette where all the colors of paint have been mixed together but miraculously instead of turning black it just becomes the color of all colors, still separate but all mixed together. Your mouth is a petrichor. Your mouth is an echo. Your mouth is all the dying vibrations of all the strings that have ever been or will ever be plucked or bowed or strummed. Your mouth is the coast. Your mouth is a library. Your mouth is circle with corners. Your mouth is endlessness. Your mouth is a hiding place for shy light.

The hair on your body is like moss after rain. Sweet and wet and soft and one of the only things that makes me think there might be just maybe a God. What could be more juxtaposed and but also so perfect as moss on the stone, of the beautiful hardness of the rock covering itself in soft carpet, not revealing its gems to the world but holding them secret. Sometimes a strand gets caught in my teeth. Or in my throat. It tickles. It is not unpleasant.

I cannot write songs about you.

When I first saw you you wore a red dress. Which is fatal. Red dresses. But your dress was not a ‘red dress,’ proper. It was quirky. Quarky. Like somehow the color didn’t make sense for the dress, or the dress didn’t make sense for the color. But it made sense on you, in a way that doesn’t make sense. You wore boots. You were zany looking. I love that about you. God fucking shit it’s one of my favorite things about you, how utterly zany you always look.

I don’t know why I was so mean to you at first, the horrible way I led you on and then backed you off. You know when you learn something and it’s so utterly vital and important and you know that you have to accept it and by accepting it you need to change your whole life starting with the very next breath, because of something you’ve learned, but you don’t right away, you can’t, because you’re sort of in shock, because you could have never foreseen it, and it’s hard accepting things into your life you could not have foreseen, because when you do that you feel a loss of freedom. Even though accepting the unforeseen willingly is the very thing that defines whatever freedom we have.

You are not elegant. I wouldn’t call you elegant. But you have a certain elegance, like a liquid, the way you exist in space. The way you move. It’s not graceful. But grace is contrived. Liquid isn’t graceful either. But it moves more beautifully than anything else on the plant. Liquid does. And you move like liquid. You exist like liquid.

I want to be the man you want to love.

What are you? What are you? You are a universe. You are a world. You are a fact. You are a mystery. You are my love for you. You are my words right now. And my thoughts. You the keys of the piano. And the notes they make. And the chords. And the songs.

What could I dedicate to you? What would be enough? What would be enough short of a life?

-March 18, 2008

On Being On Hallucinogens

May 16, 2011 § Leave a comment

A wing – or was it a petal? – stuck in the nearly invisible web of a spider. It fluttered in the wind. “There’s physics happening over here,” she said, “there’s some physics happening here.”

She fucked the flowers by smearing pollen on her face from some rhododendrons and then rubbing herself on the other flowers. “I’m a bee,” she said. “Bees are such sluts,” I said, “wonderful little sluts.”

Patterns and patterns and patterns and patterns.

My favorite part is losing the feeling of complete solipsism, that breaking down of the boundaries between you and what you perceive as the outside world. As if you are finally aware of your outer atoms mixing amongst those of everything else in existence. I am just a greater concentration of things, one realizes, I am simply a certain density, always in flux. If you tried to walk through me an infinite number of times, you’d have to succeed at least once.

“To be in flux: a paradox,” she said. ‘Well,” I said.

It seemed the trees had gathered for a reason, as if they were waiting for something, or someone, as if they were waiting to hold council.

“Isn’t it great that we have a sack that will carry our pee around for us?” “Absolutely,” I replied.

How primitive we must seem to flowers, I thought, gently jerking-off a pistil. What with us still needing two of us to procreate and everything.

From the hill in the park we watched people in evening gowns and suits go into a clubhouse. We lit a joint. “Life is a race, and we are beating them,” she said. “We are beating them so hard,” I said.

And when it began to rain we were not bothered. Everything in it’s right place.

On the Torture of Animals

May 14, 2011 § Leave a comment

I tortured toads as a child. And as a teenager. When I was young, I would sharpen sticks with my father’s old knife and I would walk the creek that ran along the far boundary of our backyard, and I would stab toads in the back as if I were making a shish kabob.

When I was a teenager my buddies and I would cross the river into Illinois or Wisconsin sometimes and we’d load up on fireworks that were illegal in Iowa: roman candles, black cats, bottle rockets. We’d trap toads in empty two-liter soda bottles and shoot bottle rockets at them, or tie all the fuses of a pack of black cats together and light it and shove it into the bottle, slowly exploding the frog to death.

Does that make me a psychopath? Or just a kid who grew up in a hick town. Or are these sort of the same.

There is an adage that says that guilt is something you feel about actions while shame is something you feel about yourself, about your being. Let it be clear: I am ashamed.

Dry Humping in Wool Pants: Don’t

May 9, 2011 § Leave a comment

I went through a phase in high school where I wore a lot of tight fitting pants tailored for females. I had on such a pair of pants, patterned with a baby blue plaid and made out of wool, when I experienced dry humping for the first time. I was so excited by the dry humping – oh my god I’m dry humping a girl – that I didn’t even notice when my erect penis slipped out of the hole in the front of my boxers and began rubbing on the wool of the pants in rhythm with my pelvic thrusts.

When the session was over, I realized there was a great deal of pain emanating from the head of my penis. Upon going into the bathroom for an inspection, I discovered I had fairly thoroughly carpet burned the underside of the head of my penis, leaving it rather bloody and raw.

I couldn’t touch my penis for weeks. The myriad morals of this story are fairly self-evident, I think.

The Next Time I See You

May 6, 2011 § Leave a comment

I got rid of the memories I didn’t like
By putting them on a machine
To remember them for me.
 
Now my head is much lighter,
And I can walk much faster.
 
I don’t miss the memories
That I put on the machine
Because I don’t remember them.
 
I could have kept the machine.
But I took it outside and smashed it with hammers.
So the next time I see you,
In case I don’t recognize you,
You might have been in the machine.
It’s not like I’ve forgotten you.
I wouldn’t want you to think I was being rude.

Synethesia

May 6, 2011 § Leave a comment

Does sadness ever make your head actually feel heavy, like it gets hard to hold up?

It does to mine. It makes my neck sore too.

Where Am I?

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