trying out

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2007/07/03

when what i know is more than what i expect, 
     then i can feel it come to the standstill i need.
it makes a sound i recognize. a constant knock, 
     banging on my heating pipes to scare off any alive.
it travels bone to bone like chattering cold, 
     uncertain steps of solitary heels in a vacant hall.
i will change nothing. i will change nothing in you. 
     i will be the one whom i must reject.
anomaly, other end eating its own hip rash, sapphire balloons, 
     strapped down on granite block.
mundane sub-par ritual, hot steel, red wire, 
     anxious canto unlike dough dipped in cabernet fold.
pills keys bites dances attempts at what will not get duplicated
     disenchanted thwarted sent through
frustrated irritated wound up bothered maddened provoked 
     put out emptied shot lights out gash.
today sits acceptably lethargic, acting like time, 
     exhausted in its routine litter, prescribed mire.
reprisals in flame, irksome blasphemies painted white, 
     waiting to be set to music, set to thought.
sans joints, amalgams, submission and muscle, traps, 
     snot-nosed little monsters, stretched, stroked,
clergy to the idle moment when a blistering christ hangs it up
     for the heck of it, for instant crime,
coincidence fucking itself into a dead end, which incidentally
     and ruthlessly pays off, fitting tight.
back to where she and he and you stand guard, back to where
     she and he and you turned back, perhaps
back to where she and he and you conspired, full speed, 
     scowled blatantly at something over-priced, 
something awful, something appalling, something marked, 
     something horrific, best friend of a friend.
and the aimless christ promptly throws icy quotes
     against guiltless visions, my mistake, my regard,
my liability, my dark secret, my strained obscurity, 
     my vague recollection, my privileged creed,
my eccentric sequences, my warm spit, my normal way 
     of trying out. membranes cross, 
                            universes sparked
as the profane christ howled and bled and stared and spent
     the whole afternoon counting his votes,
plotting his next crisis, too bent, too far, too poor, 
     too miserable, neglect dripping out like me, 
like wounded flowers, like infuriating kisses, like trivial sleep, 
     like holy seige, like cheap doubt.
vicious fiends down exploitation lane, 
     hit shriek wrench wail divulge. 
     fouled. dead. bared. meant.
the aching christ’s mouth to mouth longing nightmare sketch, 
     thirteenth denial, twentieth detour.

she will not be a part of this much longer, 
     he will not wait much longer, you will not be angry 
                            much longer, 
bus ticket and cash and smokes and papers and routes and 
     one last gesture and prearranged near misses
with the disappearing christ where the music ran away 
     south with its tolerant fear in one piece, weak
and fatigued and repentant and uninterested, off-tune, cursed, 
     felt up, shrug, yawn, what next? 
                            what next?

i try to believe i have some of her in me. 
     i bleed. 
     i know her ways and practices and outs.

i try to believe i have some of him in me. 
     i survive. 
     i use his nose and eyes and ears and mouth.

i try to believe i still have some of you in me. 
     i will recall. 
     will you be there beneath the rising moon?

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