Hazard to Maxregard 29.09.013

At this exact moment, I am feeling morose in my solitude, in my singularity-- but I have met a new young man who is wonderful and with whom I feel both comfortable and intrigued beyond belief.

And I hope all is well with you, and I am drunk and am about to escape into that other world that lies between wakefulness and work in the morning, and I wish I could escape there forever-- where things make no sense, and where the deepest parts of our frail psyches manifest themselves in all their dark-and-lightness: where time is timeless, and love is just the same as it ever was, but perhaps more tangible, more real-and-fragile.

And I hope all is well.

21.9.013 For Jess

Though through forest greens-- through fields,
and streams-- I'd like to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Halfway to death, I scared
the poor girl: sharp intake of air;
piercing scream; an about-face whirl

to face, wide-eyed, her devious assailant:
bright eyes filled with ornery glee;
and mouth split in a mischievous curl.

I offered her sweets, sincerest apologies
(Kisses of Hershey's, I'mreallyreallysorry's)--
but no such contritious feats
would suffice.

What would be nice,
said she,

(swagger in her step,
boots so high-- forever that twinkling smile in her eye

[but not so today-- no, not this time])

would be,
of course,
"a poem."

And as I wandered the high desert
(homeland of sun and humming air),
four weeks came and went.

And though my journey was pleasant
(revived from light, though my skin stayed fair),
mountains took my breath; my words were spent.

. . . And so. . .

Though through evergreens-- through
mountainside streams-- I long to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Though I've lain me down upon the loam
in hopes to one day feel the embrace
of mycelium who call piney soil their home,

I know from the sap coursing in my veins
that the trees through which I wander alone
are where I will find my rightful place.

With desert winds to fill my lungs
and the burgeoning sun on my neck, my face--
I hear the cry of songs yet to be sung;
I feel the starkness of open space.

No longer will I incite such fear in your face--
I'd rather the twinkling eyes, the elated state
which we've all come to expect, all come to know
from the bearer of high-boots in our retail home.

. . . And so. . .

Though through mountain greens-- through
arroyos-once-streams, I did once roam--
today, I have composed a poem.

20.4.013 Shouting into the Void

The text (shouting into the Void): I'd like to see you so I can talk to you soon.  I've been doing fine, but today a lot of realizations went off in my head.  I know you barely have time to breathe, but the sooner I can see you the better.  You were the only man or boy I had been with who appreciated the way my brain worked, and it validated my feeling that there is in fact nothing wrong with me or my brain; you understood me.  When you said you didn't love me anymore, you took that away, and I think that's really what hurt so much.  It's like you took it all back.  This isn't me begging for us to get back together, but there's so much I need to tell you I just have to get it out of my head.  There's so much more.

The rest (whispering to myself, wishing the Void would respond): It's not that I don't think my brain works fine-- I do, and it just works in its own individual way.  I think that because of how my brain works, I notice things that other people might not.  So it's not my mind that's beautiful, it's the world that is beautiful, and I happen to notice different, less-noticed parts of it.  And I think you knew this about me-- and you appreciated me, and the odd way my brain worked, and not even my own mother can appreciate me in that way.  She thinks I need to fix my brain with drugs, and she thinks this because she has been taught to think she or her brain is defective/broken, and because she blames herself for everything and is so hard on herself, she thinks I am broken too and that I need to fix my abnormalities chemically-- instead of learning to love and embrace them.  I felt like you loved and embraced my abnormalities.   I thought you were so wonderful. And the thought that we can't teach these things to our children makes me cry-- and, in fact, I'm writing these things as I'm crying and because I'm crying-- because I need to get them out of my head and I can't talk to you.  I don't think love is a feeling or an emotion, Kevin.  And I don't believe there is such a thing as "true love" in the westernized, Walt Disney way we've been taught to believe in.  I believe love is something that just exists.  And if we are receptive enough, we can tap into love-- be it a force or a state of being.  Love is present in the inter-connectedness of everything.  I view love as another word for God, but not in that cheesy way some Protestant Pastor would ramble masturbatorily on about.  The human experience of love elicits feelings-- usually good feelings-- in individuals and couples.  I do not think your feelings changing was a totally valid reason for you abandoning me in our relationship.  And that's what you did; you abandoned me, you dumped me like I was garbage; you forgot that you told me I had a beautiful mind-- but I didn't.  And when I heard "my feelings changed," what I heard was "I don't love you anymore, I changed my mind and I don't think your mind works right, I never loved you or your mind to begin with."  I think you have confused love with emotion.  Love exists whether we tap into it or not, and I wanted to spend my life witnessing all the small miracles with you.  I wanted to hold hands as we witnessed the tiny miracles and the great tragedies and the small deaths and the yearly rebirth of Spring.  I wanted to have you by my side.  I wanted you to be my second set of eyes, my second heart.  I wanted us to help one another to feel and see and experience the things we couldn't feel or see or experience on our own.  And I wanted to get to know one another better in the process.

02.8.013 Shouting into the Void (from a casita in Taos, NM)

I hope you realize that I still want you in my life. I want to continue building something with you; I still want you to be my friend. I don't know what you want because your silence gives me no indication. We had something good, and I'd rather the nature of it change than it disappear completely. I may regret this in the morning and every day after-- if and when no reply comes-- but you're worth the effort it takes to put myself out there. Putting myself out there is never easy, and I'm usually disappointed, but my desire to form a connection with you has always won over-- and for a long time, I wasn't disappointed in the least. I'd fight to keep it ongoing, but not if I'm just shouting in the dark. I hope all is well with you. I miss you.

07.9.013 Rock-Show Solace (to Harlan)

There are rhythms
I cannot attune to.  There
are rhymes I cannot feel;
beings of suffrage I cannot hear.

There are levels of actualization
(of the greater Self,
a selfless idiosyncrasy which delves
between the Blood
and the Bone-- the sweetwater, and sourstone)

which I cannot ever achieve, unless
(with my whole-heart; with ev'ry fiber of my plastic Being)

I believe.