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How can I sleep without you?
I have blankets, but there is
no warmth - without the nearness
of your skin.
How can I dance without you?
I have music, but there is
no rhythm - without the beating
of your heart.
How can I laugh without you?
I can joke, but there is
no joy - without the sparkle
of your smile.
How can I be without you?
I have breath, but there is
no passion - without the fire
in your eyes.
Let us go then, you and I
across this white hot scorching beach.
We can listen to the seagulls
crying out from each to each.
Hold my hand and plug your nose,
dive with me and we'll sink down.
Let the bubbles rush between our toes;
till human voices wake us,
and we drown.
(with of course a debt to T.S. Eliot)
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We've hit this point in our friendship running. You know, the one where we show each other our histories, and the scars that mark our parts. Except mine are from scalpels, pavement and fences and gravel. You stick to straight razors and music in darkness and ritual; you've made a ritual out of hurting yourself the way your father's made a ritual out of hurting you; rending and gnashing his teeth, religiously. Except his excuse is alcohol, and yours is maybe him. It's hard to say, so instead we don't.
I just pretend you have an over-excitable cat, perhaps; who scratches out that braille of white scars. Pretend you don't spend too many hours behind closed doors fighting your secret. This self-sacrifice is for him, but for nothing- So take back your offering just for the sake of spilling blood. That same blood pumps in both of you, but blood is still blood; and yours is still yours; and this is a merciless kind- of
transubstantiation.
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It's the first day of a long March
and no kind of time for a funeral
even if the earth is warm enough
now for yielding to the frantic pull
of feet and hands. This hole
was made for you, but yours - is
a long and lonesome journey down
through the wet soil and the waking
worms.
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Paper Topic: Approval
I hate that I pay $1600 for the chance to earn the approval of my graduate instructor for a shot at a piece of paper that is essentially worthless except for the fact that it serves as a stamp of my worth to graduate schools and the general public. And what is that for? My approval in the public sphere? The approval of my father? Once you look at things on these terms how can you help but rebel against it if you have any sense of independent spirit and lofty purpose. Where does this path lead but to antisocial, perhaps even "immoral" behavior? How much of a delusion are the alternatives to this framework? How tainted are the "revolutionary" writings of the Romantic Age given that they were presented in a public setting and (as persuasive essays) were fundamentally geared towards the approval of the masses? Only an exceedingly vain author could presume that their writing could be completely untainted by the need for general public appeal and still be well received. Where are these writings influenced, and how are they corrupted by it? How can one make this argument from a modern frame of reference without the author's explicit admission? Since all of this mental masturbation is geared towards my aforesaid $1600 and need for an accompanying grade, why should anyone give a damn? How can I convince my instructor to approve this topic?
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Be somebody.
Does it have to mean spreading your guts against a brick wall and a firing squad?
Is the choice really between writing letters to senators or burning flags and pissing on the firemen?
I want what I want.
I will never get it.
Instead I join a cult, I storm a beach.
Give me your red kool-aid.
Yes, I will remove my hat for the national anthem.
But I will remember what I have forgotten.
Where is the gasoline? My robes are soaked, they sting my nostrils.
Where is the water? Where are the firemen? I pillar and flame.
I cannot be forgotten.
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