There is nothing that cannot be
broken.
So let us acknowledge the fragility
of our amnesty.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Tribute to Bogey
Dad named you Bogart after the late great Humphrey Bogart.
He held his cigarettes funny and had a perpetual sneer.
You had paws without opposable thumbs and liked to
lick your nose and balls.
You were black and slim with a soft coat without sheen.
You had grays here and there and a waggedywagwag tail.
Dad used to dress you in bandana scarves and now whenever
I see Anarchists do the same thing, I think of you.
When you started shitting all over the house, Dad was
flustered with your incontinence and thought it best to
put you down. Not for shitting all over the house, but because
you were old and physically dying. 17. Jesus Christ, Bogey.
It was hard for him because he bought you as a puppy and
didn't want euthanasia to enter the picture, but he hated seeing
you suffer more. And there was shit all over the house.
So I came home after school and he told me.
It was hard for me because you were my first death.
You were my first death and I cried a lot. I was going to miss you
but I don't remember actively loving you. "Paved Paradise"
is right, Joni Mitchell. I loved you more when you left.
I wanted to apologize for that. Apologize for petting you
when you came near and rarely else. I'm sure I loved you,
but I can't remember, and don't we only remember the most
imporant things in our lives? Weren't you important to me?
I wanted to apologize for hitting your back with a baseball bat.
You were whatever and I was 6, and Dad videotaped it and barely
yelled at me, and I insincerely apologized on camera as you
yelped your quick "get away from me, dick."
We love __you.
_____-d.
He held his cigarettes funny and had a perpetual sneer.
You had paws without opposable thumbs and liked to
lick your nose and balls.
You were black and slim with a soft coat without sheen.
You had grays here and there and a waggedywagwag tail.
Dad used to dress you in bandana scarves and now whenever
I see Anarchists do the same thing, I think of you.
When you started shitting all over the house, Dad was
flustered with your incontinence and thought it best to
put you down. Not for shitting all over the house, but because
you were old and physically dying. 17. Jesus Christ, Bogey.
It was hard for him because he bought you as a puppy and
didn't want euthanasia to enter the picture, but he hated seeing
you suffer more. And there was shit all over the house.
So I came home after school and he told me.
It was hard for me because you were my first death.
You were my first death and I cried a lot. I was going to miss you
but I don't remember actively loving you. "Paved Paradise"
is right, Joni Mitchell. I loved you more when you left.
I wanted to apologize for that. Apologize for petting you
when you came near and rarely else. I'm sure I loved you,
but I can't remember, and don't we only remember the most
imporant things in our lives? Weren't you important to me?
I wanted to apologize for hitting your back with a baseball bat.
You were whatever and I was 6, and Dad videotaped it and barely
yelled at me, and I insincerely apologized on camera as you
yelped your quick "get away from me, dick."
We love __you.
_____-d.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
A Difficult Drive
They drove in silence for a long time.
They were distracted by the dead beige of the trees, only scenic as their regular surroundings were of a dead gray pavement.
She thought for a moment. Half-whispering "Do you still love me?"
"Yes." Without hesitation he responds, because he's honest and he daydreams.
"Good. I missed you."
She extended her inquisitive hand to to take his.
"I missed you too." Though in disbelief of the current state of things, he plays along. How long will this dream last? How long will reality be a holding and not a pining?
"Don't ever hurt me again."
"Okay." She spoke with the faintest melancholy, the subtlest sincerity. But it was still there.
In earnest conviction, they went back to their scenery.
Holding hands in the lap of her jeans.
They were distracted by the dead beige of the trees, only scenic as their regular surroundings were of a dead gray pavement.
She thought for a moment. Half-whispering "Do you still love me?"
"Yes." Without hesitation he responds, because he's honest and he daydreams.
"Good. I missed you."
She extended her inquisitive hand to to take his.
"I missed you too." Though in disbelief of the current state of things, he plays along. How long will this dream last? How long will reality be a holding and not a pining?
"Don't ever hurt me again."
"Okay." She spoke with the faintest melancholy, the subtlest sincerity. But it was still there.
In earnest conviction, they went back to their scenery.
Holding hands in the lap of her jeans.
In Possible
I fell in love in a day's time, and ended it just the same.
At dawn, we met and, promptly thereafter, began holding hands without asking.
At noon, we married and laughed at our parents commenting on "our marvelous unity."
At dusk, I grew tired and you--restless. Separated. Among other trifles.
At moonlight, I died in my fatigue, and your weariness drove you to some distant pursuit that I was not alive to acknowledge and congratulate.
If only you were aware.
If only you thought of these happenings
as I did.
But you are.
You are, and have (always) been,
unaware.
As if what we had, and the marriage, and the suburbs, and the kids, and the divorce, and the despair,
was all in the faintest horizon of the past, far beyond our reach, never to be remembered, at times to be repressed.
As if we're friends.
As if we've (always just) been friends.
At dawn, we met and, promptly thereafter, began holding hands without asking.
At noon, we married and laughed at our parents commenting on "our marvelous unity."
At dusk, I grew tired and you--restless. Separated. Among other trifles.
At moonlight, I died in my fatigue, and your weariness drove you to some distant pursuit that I was not alive to acknowledge and congratulate.
If only you were aware.
If only you thought of these happenings
as I did.
But you are.
You are, and have (always) been,
unaware.
As if what we had, and the marriage, and the suburbs, and the kids, and the divorce, and the despair,
was all in the faintest horizon of the past, far beyond our reach, never to be remembered, at times to be repressed.
As if we're friends.
As if we've (always just) been friends.
All Your esques And ishes
All your esques and ishes,
all your silent smiles,
all your news-clipped collages,
all your sexless pouts:
all my reasons to adore.
"I'm insanely happy I
know you," you'd write,
and I'd grin at the distant
possibilities I dreamt in my
distant unconscious.
You'd write from your window
one night "I wish that I saw
you outside" and my infatuation
with Futility began winningly.
"Merry Christmasesque."
"I've got stuff to doish."
And other curiosities that
made me fall in love with
a lesbian, if only for winter.
all your silent smiles,
all your news-clipped collages,
all your sexless pouts:
all my reasons to adore.
"I'm insanely happy I
know you," you'd write,
and I'd grin at the distant
possibilities I dreamt in my
distant unconscious.
You'd write from your window
one night "I wish that I saw
you outside" and my infatuation
with Futility began winningly.
"Merry Christmasesque."
"I've got stuff to doish."
And other curiosities that
made me fall in love with
a lesbian, if only for winter.
(What We Conceal in Parentheses)
I (still) miss you.
I (still) want you.
I (still) love you.
The stillness makes all the difference, right?
I (still) want you.
I (still) love you.
The stillness makes all the difference, right?
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