Afterthought 1352—Your Nothings

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2016/10/30

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.


An Hour Unwound

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/04/03
Casual Convo

Casual Convo
   "Et cetera."   "Et cetera?  The end
   is rarely that expected."   "Which is why
   one says so after."   "'Too late,' you imply?"
   "'Assume' is what, but since I'm still your friend
   in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?"   "Depend
   on it."   "I used to. I might even try
   to once again."   "Oh?"   "Yeah, or not."   "No lie,
   that's what makes it so easy to pretend."
   "'Whatever,' right?"   "'Whatever.' Choose your word.
   I'm not responsible."   "By that you mean
   you'll hold against me what you think gets heard
   or doesn't get that close."   "Don't make a scene."
   "A scene? A life was more what I'd preferred,
   as if one word made sense beyond this screen."

Just Visiting
Just Visiting
   As if one word made sense.   Beyond this screen
   perhaps.   Across that threshold yes.   As though
   one promise could have been accepted.   Oh
   inside those walls for sure.   No guards between
   the two of us of course there then.   Routine
   as a good morning kiss as if you know
   I pose no threat.   As though I choose to go
   or stay with no missteps to intervene.
   Like this were home.   Like you knew I'd been meant
   to be a part.   No stranger.   Family.
   Except I'm not.   You'll not know where I went
   tomorrow morning.   I won't ever see
   you waking.   This will mark the best extent
   my time with you might offer guarantee.

No Excuses
No Excuses
   My time with you might offer guarantee
   of nothing more than somewhat shared pretense
   by which I'm not thought worthy your defence
   so shrug it off or claim the fault's with me,
   whereas with my best acting I can't be
   near good enough to earn love's recompense.
   We're sorry we're not sorry.   In a sense,
   we're both and neither due apology.
   Would anything be different?   We can blame
   me all we want, and I could even do
   what you make like I should've.   All the same
   I'd owe you, right?   No chance of something new.
   Forgiveness has no meaning, no real aim
   when what I'm really bad at's loving you.

100% = X / X
100% = X / X
   When what I'm really bad at's loving you,
   the best I do just makes me all the worse
   the upside down and inside out reverse
   what you expect of me.   Sad déjà vu
   how we're divided by ourselves, into
   each other one on one, our mirror's curse
   as absolute as math.   I can't coerce
   more truth of it than what you think most true.
   And so we've nothing left.   Completely done.
   Undone's more like it.   No more to have shared,
   since giving all's the same as having none
   and we've already taken all we'd dared.
   Consider me love's void.   I'm not the one
   against whom all your loves should be compared.

Throwback Ancient History
Throwback Ancient History
   Against whom?   All your loves should be compared
   against which holy saint?   Upon whose best
   must all our worst improve?   Each passion's quest
   must measure up to whose high standard?   Spared
   no mercy by whose precedent?   Declared
   unworthy on whose sayso?   Second-guessed
   by whose presumptions?   By whose litmus test
   selected?   For whom confidences bared?
   It's over!   done with!   settled!   obsolete!
   irrelevant!   before our time!   old news!
   as dead as you'd desired!   deadweight!   deadbeat!
   deadwood!   dead end!   It's dead!   It's ended.   Choose
   to live our love in our own day, complete
   in our own moment, free of yester's views.

A girL's Monolith
A Girl's Monolith
   In our own moment free of yester's views
   secret braids of color bind a tight
   threesome together bathed in blinding light
   in our own dances hand in hand with who's
   lonesome enough embraced enough to lose
   love in life and life in love to write
   abandoned stillborn touches of goodnight
   dreams we'd scarred thick dark as one'd abuse
   open face into fierce firestorm to share
   reality intended opportune
   except will I go? can't he? where?
   you're seeing hearing cutting coming soon?
   over the bed made home to our affair -
   us three yet there beneath a rising moon.

   Us three:  Yet there beneath a rising moon
              inside another's shadow made to fit
              through hungry thighs, through open heaven split,
              yet have we not the voice of ancient rune
              within us?
                          Their own one:   What you impugn
              creates your only truth.   What you permit
              destroys your freedom.   What you've made of it
              will lose by midnight all you'd gained past noon.
   We never heard a word of it.   They hadn't let
   their silent moments break into our peace
   so they we three quite easily forget
   as we them can ignore.   So does love cease
   in voided lives born empty, breathless, yet
   their one must keep what we three can't release.

Rejection Accepted
Rejection Accepted
   Their one must keep.   What we three can't release
   their one must hold.   What we three won't adjourn
   their one must take.   What we would not unlearn
   they must pay homage to.   Too strict police
   to run their's street.   Not shamelessly caprice
   enough.   Not thought that much of.   Taciturn
   in tune.   What's too unwanted.   No concern
   for either our decline or their's increase.
   Discarded objects' shadows do impose,
   don't they, on territories newly claimed
   so need must be put down.   Rejected.   Those
   get left no chance of honor being named
   except to gauge what comes against what goes
   in terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed.

Love's Occultation
Love's Occultation
   In terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed
   our bed lies at the eye of the eclipse,
   with moonlight at her darkest in your hips
   on me left blinded by his circles flamed.
   For whom's intents whose purpose dies defamed,
   our dance composes swirls on glides in flips
   through open space.   Raw unveiled passion slips
   along deep crevices on satin framed.
   Oh wait.   No, my mistake.   That's just a cloud
   and one I should've known's not come as mine,
   yet looking up to you's as disallowed
   as much as if our orbits stood in line,
   so I'll fall to the shadows of the crowd
   without the silhouette of your design.

A Sapling's Sonnet
A Sapling's Sonnet
   Without the silhouette of your design
   extending through the dark across the lake
   to take his shore as yours, he'd never make
   your branches to his stormy skies incline.
   Without the potion of your root and vine
   imbuing wind and soil, he'd never wake
   beneath your canopy, but rather take
   his place beneath your quiet forest shrine.
   I see my way.   Both in and through.   And out.
   What's unknown grows to what we will believe
   as sure as oaks from smallest acorns sprout,
   tomorrow with today's past lives to weave.
   To weave.   Yes, that I'll also see about
   to give breath to all earth and sky conceive.

Spring's Offspring
Spring's Offspring
   To give breath to all earth and sky conceive,
   to bring light to all corners on the day,
   to spread peace to each word bold visions say,
   to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve,
   to comfort ghosts of all who cannot grieve,
   to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay,
   to color in the drab and the dim and the gray,
   to make true love the promise all achieve,
   may she who turns her circle round to spring
   and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure
   fill we who dance and they of whom we sing
   with life reborn in innocence right pure
   to melt through bitter winter's icy sting,
   for death itself to offer certain cure.

Something Apotropaic
Something Apotropaic
   For death itself to offer certain cure
   against contagious love's dissembled smile
   so as with something sure to reconcile,
   one's resurrection can't be premature
   else one's again exposed to the allure
   and tempting eye and captivating wile
   at risk of falling victim to love's guile
   against which no believer can endure.
   Say, tell me where to find that silver charm
   you always wore around your neck?   Your heart
   is naked, open to harsh hurt and harm.
   You sacrificed it?   God, that wasn't smart.
   Let's look see if we've something to disarm
   the threat to life of love's capricious dart.

Friday, the 13th
Friday, the 13th
   The threat to life (of love's capricious dart,
   its poison proving meant's not good enough
   unless both think so) is (not up to snuff
   no matter how much sacrificed) to start
   (there was a job, there was a place) to chart
   a course (and all the other legal stuff
   required of him to immigrate) to tough
   it out together, then fall far apart.
   It kills a man.   Then kills him back to back
   again until the man's past all unknown
   and yet again until the man's lost track
   and even yet again damned to his own
   dark hell.   All voided out.   All lost.   All black.
   Unwanted.   Turned away from.   That alone.