self-portrait in motion

…they say this city will wear you down its streets
your feet walk
on cold ground.
your heart beat
erratic in its traffic…

mar10

listen to what they say.

this connection to me is too strong to turn away from, although i easily turned away from it in libra. little things make me realise the strength of this connection, traces of love in physical, mental, and imaginary spaces. reminds me that i’m not broken, that there’s plenty in me to give. i hear it in voice.

“don’t worry. i got you.”

and then the upset.

“you should have come here first.”

i know.

weapons of mass distraction. i want to elevate, rise between this tugging-of-war, between one, another, and an intangible, unknown third. instead, i hide in a cubby hole, watching. it’s time to make a decision that involves severing. this isn’t fair on me, or the first. but in good news, i can still put the wellbeing of another before mine.

follow the signs, love. especially the one that says “OUTSIDE”.

whatever happened to care of Self? not that i’m being threatened, damaged. still (guy. from time). but… the guardian’s safety. and the conflict set up by both interpretations of that last sentence is what makes me hesitate. learning moment: i may be safe for you while you’re unsafe for me. you may be unsafe for me when i’m safe for you.

i know you’re reading this. i know you know it’s you. and i know you’re not trusting. i know. i was there, at another time.

i leave the miniature where i find it, so i can smile again later, feel the love. you can’t help yourself, can you? i’ll hold on to the sacred. so i still get to see the crinkles around those eyes. so we still get to save grace.

i’m breaking the sacrament. your confession: you want the same as me.

but i’ll tell you the same thing i said in extended play. it’s time for another cobblestoned sunrise. you dig, you down? (reminder – please send postcard moments). the trips explain the future. again, we’re connected by the tracks.

no one knows my inner mind like you do. summer projectin’ polymekanos. my deck or yours? sonny and cher.

***

Samuel Beckett:

James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can.

i’ve always felt helpless when it came to you. could have – would have – done anything in my power to make things easier, simpler, happier. not my place. not allowed to be my place. shouldn’t be my place, not the way this world works.

do you even know how i feel?

security, love, music. comfort, protection, blood.

in between ultimately meaningless distractions, i think, what would i do to stop this pain? mine is easy, i can deal with it. if it takes away any of yours (and all of hers), i’ll walk with it forever.

years from now though, i’ll be fine. will you?

i can’t call, can’t reach out. frustratingly helpless, can only passively receive. and nothing i can do. absolutely nothing. not an unfamiliar situation either.

i know what happens now. i wait to hear. hope for the best. hold the piece of my heart that belongs to this person. pray for the best.

while this feeling isn’t new, it’s the first time i’ve been here so intensely. over the years of growing up, i’ve written this feeling out in poems i don’t show to others. poems that are too dark, bring up too many memories. those poems don’t get published, posted, read.

today was beautiful, but i was angry at the sun. felt betrayed that she was shining, that i’ve been shining. i resented the warmth, the emotional manipulation. today should have been like the weekend. in this land, only melancholic weather is the appropriate backdrop for anxiety.

***

forgive my vagueness and vagaries. i write this way because i can’t speak about some things. not tongue-tied, that’s too simplistic, too cliched a descriptive. my throat’s raw, and the salt from my tears burns stings. reverse dysphagia got me so i can’t even swallow anything else.

horror movie reassurances. distractions from gunshots. what are you fighting (for)?

a toy soldier with a bayonet stabbed me this morning when i was grabbing something from my fridge. would have been cute(r) had i ran into it post-coffee. i have no idea what other surprises have been left in my house. warring figurines aside, each piece of stumbled-upon is love, letting me know someone cares. and that’s so essential right now as i deal with fear.

my posts are all i make public.

once again, you heard me. how, i don’t know, i wasn’t even speaking to you but to someone else. i finally get it. i’m still looking for solace and reassurance in a place that i know at an instinctive level isn’t the right place for me, was never the right place for me, no matter how skin-deep seductive. and it’s the skin that responded, the skin that always responds.

i’m acknowledging the safety in you, and all i have to say is thank you. for your patience, faith, belief, and love. thank you for that picture, those charcoal lines. thank you, so much. for all that’s past. and all that you hold in a promise to come. every once in a while, a word/sentence/piece i bring into here and now owes its presence to you. and your assurance of support. thank you for the stories. thank you for these (you might remember):

I now believe that you were a construct, a bizarre collage of the characteristics of those who came before you. true names + star signs + repetitive destructive energies. Even the dysphagia. Your eyes, I had seen before. Everything about you was a magical fabrication. I only regret not stealing the sketches, the ones with those marvelously twisted energies but I guess that’s the way it goes. Your constant little bird left a golden-edged impression on my heart. At least I kept a memento. And I’ll keep on having your dreams.

*

My heartbeat echoes the 808 echoes this scream that emerges from a bloodied face like the liontamer’s. Exposed skin invites touch invites the sting of the whip invites the healing that comes after the punishment. Funeral parlour fumes solidify. All of these honest observations feel like the needle’s journey over bone, the eye of the needle drawing a poem guided by the body’s memory mapped out in permanence.

*

You’re my magic and I miss you. Got 17 candles in a drawer, star-shaped. Their tips were once in chocolate, remnants from a birthday celebration. Red, yellow, purple, glittered into stardust, crushed, mixed with powdered sugar. Games of treasurehunt in the night through a red haze. Switch to blue for vision, lighting crevasses with technology’s in/outs. Smile. That digital glow always reminds. When did another haze come? Perched on wood, writing dreamscapes. You’re my mystic and I miss you. Each space contains echoes of your noise, shadows of your lines. Next time, you be a tourist.

EN[D]TROPE

***

Post-confessional, walking away from the booth, post-redemption, pre-absolution, condensed for the un-necessary: it’s time to walk away, don’t look back. Walk toward.

But I know I’m not the right one to mention this.