Expecting Miracles

Photolysis: : chemical decomposition by the action of radiant energy (as light)--Webster

 

I lie to myself, yet expect unadulterated truth from others.

He’s looking at me,

eyes bluer than the sky,

face behind a fish bowl.

I can’t see his eyes, the fish, or the bowl:

I’m blind.

I’m sitting on a pile of sticks,

imagining it’s a god’s chair.

We’re both disconnected, but I don't see that. I imagine him as Superman, my Soul Mate: superhuman, perfect, preserved from the havoc of truth.

My chair is broken.

His fish are dead.

He says he isn’t perfect,

but is required to be, inside my head:

where forms of perfection

dwell in a dodecahedron

with amber glass walls, for preservation

from photolysis.

I expect…miracles, and long for intense connection. Sabotage myself by accepting only perfection. I see only what I want to see.

The form inside the dodecahedron,

is fingerpainting symbols on glass walls,

codes, smoke signs, trying to send a message,

but that message is lost: I’m blind.

I’m missing out on what he wants to tell me. Trying to force men, dad, love, and God into this ideal is preventing me from achieving Oneness with reality, and truly being close to someone.

He wants to be free,

has something to express to the world and me,

but as long as he’s trapped in there,

he has only twelve walls, finger paint

and adulterated objects

I decide to toss in.

Nearly impossible to write a novel or a sonnet

with finger paint,

no letters or tools,

only symbols.

 _______________________________________

This poem is loosely based on Conundrum.

Sofa of Rumination- Part 1: Ennui

On the Sofa of Rumination,

rejected by self, like clockwork,

the Poet awakens from a sleep better

than life, dry, drained of passion.

The blood red, black, & white sparkle passion,

wrung out of her, like a rag,

meanders in street sides,

down the sewer.

You could peek down the sewer grates

into the dark reservoir,

and see it glittering

among the septic waste.

Toilet paper, trash, & shit water

mixes with luminescent passion;

the stiff, crusted rag— her body—

stinks of dried up dishwater, must

Mold, and the stale body stench

of the routine, past its expiration date,

rots. Blear over spirit, mistaken for

pain.

Written 18 July 2013

Sofa of Rumination- Part 2: Bad Words (Bad Poetry)

Jealous slut
ugly narcissist
in a zealous rut
marred & missed.

Fuck me hard
spray heart with defogger
selfishly scarred
hippocampus keylogger.

Finish me off
incomplete collection
chlamydia cough
discontinued connection.

Shut me out
no good drama queen
conceited pout
two bit sex routine.

Black white red
monotonous grey
not quite dead
dropdown menu way.


26 June 2013-19 July 2013

Wouldn't it be great?

Deprivation.

I’m invoking a blank wall.

He doesn’t respond—

not to my dearest caresses

and loving gestures.**

Maze (still)—

Running down every dead-end corridor,

psychotically beating on every door. **

Wanted you to look me in the face

& finally tell me

I wasn’t worth:

time, effort, care, love.

To you.

The obsession, stationary, sitting (always when I Finally Sit Still)

then it’s there, in my mind, brutal, this time not for food

or something I actually need,

but for exactly what is destroying me:

Love.

Desperate-hungry search for something

that isn’t there.

Inside the object

of my affection.

Who’s unaffected.

He holds the “key” that I need to unlock

some supposed treasure.

Some… thing.

Something worth staying here on Earth for, in the moment,

worth not dissociating from the present.

Or I think I see a key in there.

I see what I want to see.

I was always invoking a

blank wall.

The reels of my mind projected onto its white surface.

Before my eyes flashed The Fantasy

of knights in white armor,

fairy tails, a brainwashing, heart-denigrating

wonderland of romantic, emotional, sexual

devotion.

The Farce: that someone would hold me and keep me as theirs.

Not so.

Let it go.

Let go the Obsession & Fantasy

Let go of love.

Tear down the walls of the maze

(I’ve been in so long,

since the First Abandonment.)

Let go of the want,

quash the dream.

That is the solution to set me free.

The bane of gods and kings,

the bitterness of knowing [we] are free.**

Do I really want to be free?

I run & run & run

like a rat on a wheel, a treadmill.

"If I could truly be free,

would I?"

I asked myself that when I was reading

some self-help book

in a bad mood

and it would be great, wouldn’t it?

To set myself free from

the emotional mess of the chase.

I’d invest less time in men

and I think

more energy into my own life,

hobbies—painting, music, creativity, travel.

I’d have more 

time to write

and, “Wouldn’t it be great?”

I wonder, as I sit,

lonely, dreaming

waiting for something to happen.

Storm Chasers

For T.S.W., and you.

Rain mists in a vortex around us.

Wind weaves our hair into nests,

gusts billow deafeningly—

gladly, it masks the annoyance of everyone else

with white noise.

Random objects swirl around—

mirror shards to cut, black-cat bones to

become lodged in our throats, broken boards

with tetanus nails, pieces of people,

their Umbrellas, and shredded yellow trenchcoats.

They rushed: gathered their children & puppies,

loaded up minivans to flee the storm.

They’re history: wouldn’t sit, cross-legged,

like the Buddha, levitating in detachment—

wouldn’t stare unflinchingly into the Eye of the Tornado,

let it carry them away.

They’d rather: push, madly, in hordes

toward exponential decay.

Yes.

We’re here together,

beyond the confines of Time,

in the sensual vent of the volcano,

which houses the Spirit of the Monster,

and we aren’t afraid.

We like it here

where the truth dwells.

The monster lives inside, too,

thriving off the pain of

in the sinews of Truth.

Huge in size, with a tiny, efficient heart,

covered in a sticky film of fly-trap ooze,

(Don’t touch, only stare.)

Of course it has green eyes,

not leaf-green, more like Alexandrite.

Sometimes they’re steel-blue.

Behind the beautiful eyes of the Monster,

a storm brews.

And we, crazy storm chasers,

will charge with full-force, headlong, no-holds barred, fuelled by mothers’ pleas and all our scars,

to be uplifted, exponentially, and swallowed into the eye of the storm,

for in the heart of this suffering,

we feel, intensely, the most beautiful art form.

26 June - 9 July 2013