still the world has little meaning without her
i've been laid up in p-town since monday. i guess it is some sort of luck that i was forced by medicine to vacate the big city for this week to heal, and hideaway from livia. i guess. although being bedridden for day after day allows for way too much brain wandering-- especially when one is running low n painkillers. it's a tough row to hoe. every morning i wake up i am still devastatingly sad to be able to stretch the full length of the mattress and not touch my lover. it's terrifying. i truly gave my life to that woman-- and i won't ever be able to escape her haunting now. i have never devoted all of myself to anything so entirely. shit-- i told all of you that she was even going to motherfucking new mexico with me! what? committment of that sort? unheard of. it was just her goddamn welding coveralls, and her black hair and eyes and heart. and she just kept getting chubbier and cuter. yet more violent. too bad she had to make everything so fucking impossible. and now i am hear with heinous television shows-- thinking about going home, but knowing that like a gutless fraud, i will just be sitting by the phone, or crying over the immaculate view. i am almost certain i must go to the southwest now. i am being handed no other choice by circumstance. and i have left two understanding and respectful friends who are in my county line.
i wrote a nice poem though... wanna hear it?
black strands sweep westward
across her forehead.
and i might have found the last living one.
i am enough taller.
and there is a midsection for me
to poke my fingers into
like a little animal.
i aim to never take my lips
off the rim of her face.
finding hard swallows
of brown mixed drinks
stronger than her stare
there.
gray suspenders trapped
like wide fingers among tense neighbors.
fat bunches of violet and green grapes
in mounds before her grimace.
we're hurt in steeple glares
that sun the top of the hill
with the Sound deceptively flat
and weird green lights simmering at ten.
thinking we could take hold
the late rope ladder,
and put ourselves both
in its knot.
because i still
want to smell her fabric again
far from home.
also i made a picture of hunter s thompson in charcoal. and one of my catheter bag. oh yeah-- and my surgery was gruesome but short-ish. and i understand i have wicked stitches. and a catheter is the worst invention ever and i hate it and feel invaded by rubber. ick.
i wrote a nice poem though... wanna hear it?
black strands sweep westward
across her forehead.
and i might have found the last living one.
i am enough taller.
and there is a midsection for me
to poke my fingers into
like a little animal.
i aim to never take my lips
off the rim of her face.
finding hard swallows
of brown mixed drinks
stronger than her stare
there.
gray suspenders trapped
like wide fingers among tense neighbors.
fat bunches of violet and green grapes
in mounds before her grimace.
we're hurt in steeple glares
that sun the top of the hill
with the Sound deceptively flat
and weird green lights simmering at ten.
thinking we could take hold
the late rope ladder,
and put ourselves both
in its knot.
because i still
want to smell her fabric again
far from home.
also i made a picture of hunter s thompson in charcoal. and one of my catheter bag. oh yeah-- and my surgery was gruesome but short-ish. and i understand i have wicked stitches. and a catheter is the worst invention ever and i hate it and feel invaded by rubber. ick.