I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
During a day when things had been just awful — my mom actually threatening suicide, which was not like her — I saw in my FB feed a video of the ending of Death Proof, and though I watched it again, I remembered how much I had hated it the first time through, when I saw the film itself. It was severely off-balance. He was a murderer, and an attempted-murderer, a psychopath, a bad person … but he was screaming in a very realistic way about the fact that his leg was broken. The three heroines stood him up on his broken leg and punched him in the face until he was dead. It felt sick to me. It felt like a normalizing of cruelty.
I saw why it was in my feed. You had clicked like on the video. I got sick inside. You had not just watched it, you had enjoyed it. I began to write crazy shit in the comments section for the guy who posted it. So fucking crazy until at one point I finally started blurting out the things my mind says to me: “Murder. Pain. Death. Horror.” And it was at that point that he friended me. I accepted, with the intention of unfriending him at his most vulnerable moment. (Which I did. He had been saying how lonely he felt after someone he knew had unfriended him. That’s when I did it.)
When you saw that, well … there are some people who will always choose maintaining their friend circle as a priority over a sick loved one … and we ended up in the fight that never ended. (I’m sure it did for you, but hey, listen up.)
It was cruelty that was at the heart of it. We circled back and forth over the various ideas surrounding horror movies in general, until we had to give it up in disgust. But it was really cruelty. That when somebody is being cruel, they’re making a choice to indulge in evil.
Outside the heart of the matter was the fact of the darkness. I couldn’t stand that you laugh at horror movies, because to cruel people horror movies are funny, but to people who live in the darkness, horror movies are a free-form allegory for reality. For what those of us with fucked-up minds already know about, and always expect from reality.
And in the end it was about God. My actions are always centered on the will of God. If I fuck up, I acknowledge to myself that I’m fucking up. That’s minor, but it’s not. It’s everything. We don’t have to live under a shroud of guilt, but I think we need to know when we’re transgressing. I have no problem with my explorations of transgressive cinema, but I acknowledge the darkness I’m in. I fear that you are the type of person who would feel empowered by it. Though of course it’s as moot as can be. Though you still live in my mind and heart.
It was a mistake that one time to go and seek out a bag in the hood. I had been wrestling for quite a long time with the realization that I could either pay attention to you, or smoke myself into oblivion.
When we got home and smoked, you said to me, “It’s decent mid-grade weed.” And I took that as an insult — because I take half of everything everyone says as an insult — in the sense that I had been getting the medical hookup for so long, and it just so happened that I had the hood weed hookup this time.
You went into the other room, indicating you wanted to fuck.
Of course you wanted to fuck. Weed does that.
But I was feeling bitter, so I stayed in the living room and smoked all night until it was gone.
In the morning we went to the diner and had a good time. Except when you got back home and we talked on the phone, you were terribly offended to find out that I had little memory of that breakfast. I tried to say, I never have a good memory. And I’d been smoking all night. You said, “And you don’t share.”
For the longest time I thought you meant that I smoke by myself and not with others. I eventually realized you meant that I hadn’t saved any for you for the next day.
It was a disaster. And I never got a chance to apologize or explain in the proper way.
And this, of course, is just to say that I still think about you constantly. There are super-models in this world. Celebrity actresses. Women so attractive I can’t stand to make eye contact. But you are the one I fantasize about, because you’re the one I want. I don’t want the foreign touch of another woman. I want your touch. I want your mouth. I want your breasts. I want to taste your breath as we kiss. I love you. I love you.
UPDATE: I want you so much more than Patsy Kensit.
our hidden bungalow
in our coupled imagination
is still there
and to me
there’s a quilt in there
that still smells like us
and an alarm clock
that’s never set
and — as i described once —
a door-to-door fishmonger
with a bucket of shaved ice
and the fresh catch
(and a hook for a hand)
at our door
yelling his wares
and to me a fireplace
and more snow and distance
than anyone we had left behind