Monday, August 23, 2010

beautiful girls

Disasters of the heart.
I keep forgetting about them as I get older,
I who fill my time with work
and books and empty sex,
having chased out all the demons
from my bygone life of need.
I had needed to be saved
and then hadn’t,
adulthood’s nifty trick,
though sometimes I lie in bed
and stare at the ceiling
wondering if life now lacks
some essential desperation
to bring it purpose.
What happens when a woman
stands between you and oblivion?
Is it love? Before,
I’d lived off infatuation,
satisfied somehow with desire
and desire and desire and
always looking to others for salvation,
love all tied up in death,
drifting out on choppy waters
a madman copacetic—

But then I got older.
And sometimes lovers are merely lovers,
and the cars simply pass,
and work is something you do for money.
Grounded and needless and satisfied,
it’s a quiet life,
so quiet that I lie in bed and think:
Does no one else tire
of the way they always feel?
I could use a little more calamity,
blood of my fathers and blood of my sons;
I no longer need to be saved
but long for a little disaster,
hungering for suffering still,
I the ex-fanatic,
I who beg you to break me,
break me up.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

gods and monsters

There are paths across this violent planet
I’d like to see but can only find when
terrified and confused and alone,
carried across by a fancy or ego
or incompetence otherwise impossible to achieve
while on my best behavior.
Why? Blame the soul.
The thing about souls
is that sometimes they choose
loneliness or vanity or ambition
the way frigates choose the open water.
They're the moral organization of chaos;
the impractical part of us
whose identity can never be
modified, shaved down, faked,
carrying us onward even when hobbled,
staying broken even when fixed,
bearing weights and loves and grudges forever.
And the soul is there
the way mistakes are always there,
inhabiting every atom
of our imperfectible little lives,
always impractical,
always emerging unbidden,
sometimes on a Tuesday,
sometimes when you’re standing along the curb
with the paper and a sandwich,
standing there thinking about a commercial and
staring at a girl across the street like an idiot,
and the soul either hits you or you just kind of remember
that not every single day
is the most meaningful day of your life,
so please god
do not let this be the day
I get hit by a fucking car.
And there it comes,
that animal velocity in us,
breaking our bodies across a dozen muscles
to funnel this tempest of a life
into a meaning we’d never intended
with a force we’d never fathomed,
and we are insane for this, no?
and murderous, and in love,
all us gods,
gods all and monsters.