Four men crossing a bridge. (8-25-10)

Caught in the passion of my emotion, over petty arguments with my mother, I passed over the bridge. It was the same bridge that I stopped near, pulling the car aside from the road, to speak to my friend about my concerns of when my lovers have mistreated me. There I asked her if she thought that he might continue to think of me. She told me that he probably hasn’t allowed himself the thought. While she spoke of facts, indicating he was afraid, I watched, observing the outline of the trees in the moon’s light, wondering if a police officer might question my business there, but no patrol car ever came.

That day, I saw four men walking on the bridge in a small parade of humanity. Where were they going? Four Indian men, walking in the sun, dressed in polo’s and Khakis, and then there was I, young, observing four adults, maybe three generations, crossing a bridge, possessing grace.

I’ve been thinking of that bridge. I’ve been thinking of the past, how it smelled, how he smelled, what it felt like to have him close enough to remember the warmth coming off him, or how the moon’s light can’t outline a man’s body through the haze of a city sky. I think I was happy then in the drama of those days and nights. There was no direction, there was no wind. There was only snow, and cold, and his impulse to kiss me because it was what he wanted, and how then, and only then, he deserved me, and I him.

Was it just a ruse to the ego or heart? Was it only then that I’ll know lust and letting go, or is there, within this order, a more complex way to fall, so I might once again feel entranced with life itself? Does it require other halves, twenty marbles to fill a jar with some spaces, empty creases in between?

Get me out of the memory that says to feel the ghost’s hand, and to be alive on the floor in my room. Get me out of the mind and into a practice, preserving my name until I die. Get me down from the spirit, and into the land so I can face loneliness and love her.

News of your arrival (8-15-10)

If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, then what have I left to do but wait? Waiting is the game I play, faking that I’m patient, when really, there liviving, burning in my gut, for union and the surprise that you’ll join me in this thought. Neither I nor you can conceive the great day, where we will say hello to the death of boundary. Neither one of us can conceive this union till we’re willing. If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, maybe I’ll leave, fighting with all things, pretending only gentle things possess wisdom. Maybe, I’ll be the one to run from commitment. I’ll be a hypocrite if I complain any further. What’s the point of living if it’s fear that I allow to cradle me in solitude, rather than jumping into your arms, feeding us both with wild passion. What if I chose to stay and forget the words of friends, only to have the moment I said I was too afraid to have. If tomorrow doesn’t bring news of your arrival, it is then that I’ll decide.

Some TV (8-14-10)

Where are you today, that you couldn’t join the crowd; the people willing to share beyond the barriers of where their heart resides. Couldn’t you turn off the TV, or at least tease me till laughter about how I hate this show? You know, some of us could use a little entertainment of your body or your mind. Something to validate how lonely we are, but maybe if I had your hand on my hip, or your tongue in my thoughts, speaking a language so foreign to my complex needs, that I can’t even articulate between the discernment of desire or genuine need. So I’ll struggle instead, finding the roles of response, and the commander with the instruction book; but published and authored by whom?

My only sense of resolve is in the company of my oldest and most familiar companion that mirrors the ideal, but without ever saying what is actually so. I’ve told my friends about him, and their responses differ all the time; some wanting me to shut my mouth, while others will cheer, “Right on! Keep on fighting man. I can’t end my appreciation in finding such refreshment that there is another fighting like me. We haven’t won the war, but we haven’t lost it either. I’m so happy to see we’re on the same side.” Rarely do I say that I’m on anyone’s side, and I’ll find myself each moment indecisive of where to agree, because my real heart doesn’t care, and only wants to be close to another. It’s only when confusion runs through the community do I shout, “Everyone, shut up, for my words need to be known.”

Never, it seems, can resolve be found, and I find blank stares from American men, while I talk of responsibility. Every once-in-a-while do you find a few houselights on, but who wants to live in only the attic or basement? Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are many romantic things that can occur in either location, but for now I’d like to sit with you joyfully, while together we can watch some TV.