I wrote this one special.I wrote this for you.
I wrote this one in particular
for this particular day
in this particular way
so we could particularly while away hours
working our way through the particulars
of this… particular piece.
I did it for you.
I did it for us.
I write this one special
for this occasion
as a gift
and like the best of gifts
it works best
if it’s shared.
She rests on my chestand I pull her closer still.
I feel her nerves.
I hear her heart
it pulses against me
as I breathe.
I hope that the closeness calms
kills and stills the crazy energy
barely bridled within her
while slowly, silently
something comes up
from within me.
it rises and raises intensity
in this bed
but she doesn’t move
while the fart rises
her heart rate falls.
Something about it
has done the trick
where nothing I could think of
did aught about it.
We lay there relieved
as the smell dissipates
and some calm
You said yes and the days are like diamonds.
You said yes and I am concussed.
You said yes and I’m wicked mixed nature:
I’m pleased as pie, but my confusion’s robust.
You said yes which I thought wouldn’t happen.
You said yes and I’ve gotten my way.
You said yes and my happiness beckons
my legs are electric, they’re ready to play.
You said yes and you can’t take it back.
You said yes; now I have what I lacked.
You said yes and I’m feeling so free
because you’ve said yes to me.
You said yes and the trees are romantic.
You said yes and the bushes sing songs.
You said yes and the grass whispers poems.
The ants echo stanzas and patter along.
You said yes and the rains have turned upward.
You said yes and the thunder cracks "hi!"
You said yes and the lightning lights ways
for the people to wander and no one asks why
but it’s cuz you said yes and my dreams are come true
You said yes. To me. From YOU!
You said yes. I couldn’t believe it.
Are you sure you didn’t April Foolish deceive it?
You said yes. It’s a gas gas gas.
You said yes. I pray it won’t pass.
You said yes. You never can flee.
You said yes to me.
At some point it will be easy to write again.
The ideas will flow
the words will dribble out of the pen
the sentences simply stream from my fingers
as I tippity type them onto the page.
the process will prove to be natural
as it once was.
The writing will again be something spontaneous
twisted out of shape.
it won’t be as hard as this,
There are parts of the world that don’t look real
so ethereal are their beauty
so extraordinary their shades.
Some things are too glorious to be true.
I have seen photographs that feel like they must be doctored
but for my faith in the photographer
and another thing.
I seen other beauty that is too much to believe
another creature that defies reality
to such an extent
that it makes all other things possible.
You can make me imagine all things true
because I’d never thought I’d ever see something
such as you.
No you’re right,
obviously, I’m not over you,
otherwise, I wouldn’t have been in touch
to let you know
that I was over you,
that should have been obvious
on my way over here.
I would not have asked you to return
all the clothes I’d ever lent you
and I would not have brought a mariachi band
to your parents’ place
to inform them I wouldn’t be coming for Thanksgiving
These are not the gestures of a man
who has seen things through to completion.
These might not be the gestures of a man
who knows what completion truly is.
But these are the words of a man
who is man enough to admit that he is not over you.
So though you’re right, and I should give you some distance
don’t you think that my personal revelation
deserves maybe some kind of a hug for good behavior?
Or maybe I should work on boundaries.
My pants are stitched back together
– messily –
The sewing is pisspoor
the patches mismatched
the stitches uneven
and in places unfixed
the pants are wearing away
but I worked on these pants
knitting them back together
and though they’re a mess
a hideous wreck of a product
and beloved by the one
who wears the pants around here
– which I have to put on
two feet at a time
for fear of some new tear
Thank you, dear,for reminding me,
when I commented on the peaches on the table,
that it was you who’d stained the table
– sorry, counter, I misspoke. Counter.
You selected the material
you bought the material
you cleared me out of the kitchen
and smelled up the kitchen with the spray-staining apparatus,
so you’re right:
far be it from me to insensitively complain when I,
who thoughtlessly exploded a peach upon your counter
have to spend a moment or two cleaning it up
after you went to such effort
to make our home so fine and beauteous…
it is appalling what I’ve done, really.
Really, beloved, you must forgive me.
The peaches you left in the bowl
on the counter
were so ripe
– overripe –
that the juice burst from my mouth
to my hand
to my shirt
to the floor
to the counter
– which had so recently been stained
at not too small an effort.
– what I had of it –
was quite delicious.
It was very thoughtful
to leave the peaches
in just such a way.
She said my last human touch was two months ago.
She swallowed the drink and looked at me
with my pulse
her only accompaniment.
What about you? she asked
but I had no answer.
I couldn’t think back that far
but I couldn’t think of much
but her touch
and when it had been experienced
and by who
and where and why
why are you so quiet? she laughed
while I gulped
and she drank
and we continued
our terse little absence of exchange
over computer screens
for a little longer
before we retired to separate corners
when she did whatever
she was going to do
and I did what I
most certainly did.