the more love you give, the more love you have.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Field Notes

Instead of sleeping tonight, I decided re-reading drivel from those times before was a better idea.
randomness from my journal, 2 summers ago.
In which I talk about sweat...A lot.

----------------------------------

I am attuned to your faults. I can see the lines and cracks,
your continental plates of past mistakes, they are
always grating along side one another, a constant of pressure,
begging for eruption.
But you poor, broken boys: you are men now,
and it grows harder to find melancholy endearing.
are you looking to falter? I don't think it counts as
tragically romantic
when you do it on purpose.

------------------------------

there is possibly
something rotten
in my mouth, or else,
blood- spoiled- to taste like
the worst sewage spilled from
the worst city
my feet are blackened with dust, grit
clings and nests under all my nails, dried sweat
is like a second skin. I molt- it peels.
my subterranean skin growths are rampant.
Rising, rebelling, in all the spots I want to be touched.
inner thigh, slope of my cheek, it seems
even my body is fist fighting my desires
with its own defensive
disease.

------------------------------

you are shaggy haired and covered in some strange sheen:
callous youth tied tight into an older mans tenderness.
it makes for a tricky combination, one I was once
mistakenly enamored with, I was
driving towards your failure, I was
speeding.

-------------------------------

how would you know, these things I've
howled loose?

-------------------------------

smoking too much. limbs heavy with whiskey and fatigue.
the humidity creates damp pockets out of my body.
my right ear is clogged with what feels like
a waxen cockroach pissing saline and sludge.
through all this, though, I'm feeling better about
the curves and sweat and sway of my body-
its smells and motions,
its dirt filled disgraces,
its heavy pull, and all
its desires.

--------------------------------

these days
time elapses with such meager effort
seasons and minutes seem to hold the same shape.
all these memories, most carefully stacked then shattered-
what pieces of us now do they account for?
how much of our past
are we made of?
and how far since have we traveled, with these minutes
stretched like seasons between us?
and I need to tell you
what little difference distance makes
and I need to tell you
just how much I've missed you

No comments: