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you that I loved [Nov. 4th, 2010|01:56 pm]
You that I loved all my life long,
you are not the one.
You that I followed, my line or path or way,
that I followed singing, and you
earth and air of the world the way went through,
and you who stood around it so it could be
the way, you forests and cities,
you deer and opossums struck by the lonely hunter
and left decaying, you paralyzed obese ones
who sat on a falling porch in a deep green holler
and observed me, your bald dog barking,
as I stumbled past in a hurry along my line,
you are not the one. But you
are the one, you that I loved all my life long,
you I still love so in my dying mind
I grasp me loving you when we are gone.
You are the one, you path or way or line
that winds beside the house where she and I live on,
still longing though long gone
for the health of all forests and cities,
and one day to visit them,
one day be rich and free enough to go and see
the restricted wonders of the earth.
And you are the one, old ladies fated from birth
to ugliness, obesity and dearth,
who sat beside my path
one day as I flashed by. And you are the one,
all tumble-down shacks in disregarded hills
and animals the car on the road kills
and leaves stinking in the sun.

A. F. Moritz
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(no subject) [Apr. 4th, 2010|12:51 pm]
As it is warming,
As I have turned on the fan,
As it slopes my form,
And as I wait for you,
Concave in the illusion of conjoined sleep,

As I have always,
As I wander the lanes of a memory,
As it bruises in the ink of lost time,
And as your touch lingers there,
Speaking yet from the bounds of quiet revery.
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(no subject) [Mar. 25th, 2009|07:00 am]
He dreams that his mouth is full of push-pins, or that between his teeth he somehow stores lead bearings.
I dream this story, that it occurs in a book. The bearings and push pins splinter my teeth. My tongue shifts the broken enamel and I taste the blood.
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(no subject) [Mar. 12th, 2009|03:30 pm]
I did not resent you for the loss of what could have been
(for what was, a year-less-a-day later, on a transpacific flight, remains the beginning of my second life), but because what was, what is, remains unpermitted, unbelieved even now.
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December 2006. I laughed really hard when I found this. [Dec. 20th, 2008|12:51 pm]
I slump over the last steps and draw the liqueur bottle from the top drawer, and unloading the remainder into my throat, take again to the stairs.

My father is storming around, and he stops and says

Don’t worry I’m going to stay and take care of it.

And in an instant I see that this might cut me from the ride I need across town. My aunt and uncle are waiting for him and my mother, and their children are playing Clue in the living room.

If you stay it’s only going to perpetuate the fight. You should go; it’s not worth ruining everyone’s night over.

But he is off again. Brian had found a bottle of Smirnoff in Thomas’ gym bag. Thomas plays on my father’s basketball team, and we all stood around while he issued a summary suspension across the dining room table. Thomas called Brian a faggot. Brian told Thomas he was going to be a janitor. Then Brian and I argued about whose evening plans were more important. The loser would watch the kids.

My mother stops Brian at the hall end and asks him what he was doing with someone else’s PEI drivers’ license. Why did you bring this up now, Dad and I are saying. There are red splashes on the wall through the bedroom windows and open doors, and someone yells from downstairs, there’s a fire truck in front of the house. My aunt and uncle are waiting in the driveway.

Sorry, I’m leaving, I can’t take this shit and I’m going.

If you leave I’m going to hit you in the fucking face on the way out the door.
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(no subject) [Dec. 12th, 2008|05:00 pm]
I discern a subtle stream
converging in the quiet
just behind the silence
my mind has slipped inside it
I can feel a past being fed me
a second hand future's mislead me
a second hand future's mislead me
I feel a fate being fed me
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Camel leather gloves [Nov. 11th, 2008|12:43 pm]
On this keyboard I feel adrift in a familiar task, as a skilled musician faced with an unknown instrument might resent its denial of his prowess. I can now longer claim prowess, and I cannot fault this lumbering device and its wandering backspace key for what I know to be a personal block. It may be impossible to write, if not compose, without an instrument. Trying to write here is equally impossible. A flash of disgust tears through me as I read one sentence before the last. The keyboard may interrupt fluid thought, perhaps something is wrong with the chair, but a dam in a stream of ideas I alone can account for. Forgive if this is too elegiac. I haven't had a mind to write here in so long that now I can't think what I ought to say, and am left with what is happening in this moment in the old mechanic's institute library not far from my home, and what is happening is I am struggling with a keyboard and a perennial frustration. The gloves I found in a pile at a compact vintage store are drying beside me. They might be womens. I bought them last evening from the flamboyant Vietnamese who assured me that if I liked them and they fit it was worth the risk. They are on my left, palms up, and as they dry my hope that the leather treatment I hastily applied on my way out the door has not entirely ruined them is slowly restored. I was sufficiently upset by the immediate browning turn from a light coffee-camel to cancel the class I was scheduled to instruct.

I sat briefly in the crossanterie after fruitless visits to dry cleaners on my block. This morning I'd shaved quickly but dressed carefully. I stirred some sugar into my coffee and tried to decide why the stained gloves bothered me so. It could be dashed hopes, it could be that moving around has shaken my self-image, something I imagined restored or reclaimed when I found them. I decided that I'd bought them to enjoy them and that for one moment, or for two or three blocks of st-catherines, I would wear them and imagine them to be as I wished. There's an essential defiance in looking as one wants without regard for perception, which I sensed as I held my cup of coffee and Il Gattopardo before me, the brown stain on my right hand visible in grey quater-light of the afternoon, and walked as if I didn't know or didn't mind. If the gloves are restored, and it looks at this moment as if they might be, I will accept this as my reward revoking vanity in favour of autonomy and warmth.
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dare [Sep. 24th, 2008|11:41 pm]
I kiss maggie.

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two-thousand and seven [Jan. 3rd, 2008|05:55 pm]
I'd just like to say
that I think it all worked out rather well.
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(no subject) [Nov. 15th, 2007|02:11 pm]
It doesn't have to be like this.

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