Afterthought 1467—Never Will I Be
I'll never be a friend you want or need as long as I can't be what you assume to be the one behind words you misread. You give freely? I'm wondering, to whom? Never once will that special one be me as long as I can't be what you assume. No matter how I try, I'll never be a friend you want or need. I'm not — never once will that special one be me. What you expect of me I haven't got nor will I ever get it. I can't do that — a friend you want or need I'm not. I can't act like how what you're getting at when who I'm not is who you say I am, nor will I ever. Get it? I can't do that. What an unconscionable unmitigated sham to be the one behind words you misread when who I'm not is who you say I am! I'll never be a friend you want or need. |
Afterthought 1444—A Crossing, A Casting, A Calling
We three will come as were sent to bring out through our seeing word inspired in visions meant for our own each one's freeing. We three brought along our dark ghosts and demons tossing, our magic here to make its mark to break light on our crossing. We three share a common breath our life our love rewinding, none harming past all death, irrevocably binding. We three join to voice moon's rise for dancing sunlight's falling, bardoi to holy exercise in one the others' calling. We three recreate the myth, true poetry reciting — Birth and Death and Beauty with our song new legend writing. We three times three serve its same our blessed covenant lasting, in our Muse's sacred name according to our casting. |
Afterthought 1352—Your Nothings
No nothing is the same as any other. A mathematician you once thought you knew tried to explain his unique proof of that to me. He lost me at the part about different infinities and about lines and curves in complex space and about time's role in actuarial equivalences. Or maybe I lost him in an earlier dream he had, back when the three of us were first together with nothing expected and nothing promised, and neither of those the same as this nothing, this nothing we've had to make something of. Set it all equal to nothing. Like the quadratic equation, he says. Like what? Oh. Another metaphor. Make it all as a metaphor. Like a metaphor. As though a metaphor. Same as. I had to learn it the hard way. I had to be nothing. His quadratic equation's nothing. Euler's nothing. Einstein's nothing. Aristotle's nothing. Then yours. Class remained in session. I walked the empty hall. Outside the fires of riot were lighting up the streets. A strange woman was taking your place in his bed. He got rid of her by explaining his proof of nothings. Turned out she was just Pilate's grandson in drag. Truth is nothing. No nothing's same as any other. Divide nothing into itself. Repeatedly. I always believe you. You made me. He said so too. So where was I to fly when you showed what I am to you? All your brochures, they turn into the world you wage war against. I believe in you. It's nothing to me to be nothing to you. The sacred statue goes back to its ancient home tonight. You'll make it up to me. He works out who everyone is supposed to be before our eyes. Bank hard left. Make it all yours. |
Afterthought 1279—Two Poets
You turned completely around to kneel in the passenger seat, curious about two poetry books I'd purchased. I tried pretending the volumes a mutual selection chosen more by my quiet traveling companion. You knew better. Both were poets too obscure, too near the edge you guessed I would have made it to. Both were poets too often ignored. My quiet traveling companion stared down at the car floor. You flipped through the pages of both worn books as if familiar with the words, the images, the legends. I'd thought I would never see you again. The road fading behind us said I was again near gone. You returned my sacred treasures to me. You sat back in your seat. You said nothing when we were let out. I will read those two poets through your eyes, and whenever I do rain'll fog up the rear window. |
Afterthought 1258—Is the Word
Is the word you wish to hear one that you yourself can't say without it beating up your throat as cries from lovers you betray kill the word's sound in your ear to leave you only ill you wrote? Is the word you wish to know one that you yourself can't see as living in the hearts you damned, replacing love with flattery of hustlers using you as though they in turn weren't being scammed? Is the word you wish to keep one you yourself consider dead, barely thought of now and then as if a brief guest to your bed? All your words sell on the cheap— you'll never find true words again. |
Afterthought 1084—Heart Hungry
Let's rent kayaks, go watch icebergs relax like lazy thoughts on currents as they melt into horizons passing storms have blurred. Mid-morning breezes tease across our backs. Old island legends' fingers long and svelte crisscross, composing secret songs unheard. If we get separated, we'll meet up back here, corner of Prescott and Military. Adrien felt the lunches this cafe serves his preferred. This far north, our days won't disappear, take my word. |
Afterthought 913—Sonnet -6
Conceived in doubt, whom he loves he must lose his future to. Another will come by to pick it up for him. He needn't try convincing her to stay. Another muse will speak to his forgotten dream. Excuse him his regard for her. Another sky will open up on him. Distrusting why, whose child he fathers he cannot be whose. My mother's nipple nursed me on his word until my own kicked in. "Before he left me stuck with you," she told me once, "He'd hoped to live to see you cured. I might've coped with losing him, but not with your soul's theft. Go after him. You'll know no other lord." |
pearls 
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