Monday, October 29, 2007
mindsludge, nonsense, faux-poetic rambling, etc.
i wish i could cut You out of my mind, but the plastic knife's too dull and my hands shake too much, i got the jitters baby, i got the cold shakes, i'm all busted up inside, piles of broken pieces in plastic bags with all the sharp edges poking through, making a small hole, then a tear, then a rip, then a mess. and when i say "You," i don't mean "you" specifically because "you" specifically are no longer of any interest to me. i'm talking about the abstract of You, baby, the eternal shining woman, the symbol, the other, the lady that all the poets write about when they want to write but haven't been seeing anybody recently. i love that girl, love her from my guts, from my soul, from my dry bones, but i've never met her, because every dame i've ever crossed eyes at has been stained by the seed of Adam and tainted by the blood of dead soul skins. so please ignore me, and don't take any of my singsong personally, for the person you be is not the person i see when i see Thee with me. the sweet lady i'm referring to is too abstract and unrealistic, which is what makes her so safe, because if she were to show up in my life, i'd be dumbstruck and unmoored and scared out of my never-lovin mind. i don't want to love, but of course i want to be loved because i'm selfish and childish and squeamish and embarrassed by everything that reeks of me. i'm hiding, baby, in my mind, hiding in my fat suit, hiding in my dead flesh, because the moment i meet you--not "You" the abstract ultimate, the perfect unknown, but you the real down-home flesh and blood, skin and bone, anger and fear and creativity and timidity and deep deep need to be loved as much as me--when i meet the real yougirl i don't know if i'm man enough to do what a man's got to do when he meets the woman he's destined to die for. i don't know if i have it in me. i don't know if i'm ever going to measure up to that. in fact i'm pretty sure that i'll destroy everything i touch, and if i don't it's only by the good favor of God. i'm broken, honey, broken in every place i can be, by the things i couldn't control and the things i could but never tried to change, bearing the scars of self-inflicted stupidity, spraining my neck as i swivel to look backwards at the things i should have left long behind me. i feel messed up and dried up and strung out and crushed down, sweetie pie, i'm no good no good just like your mama always told you about boys who read books and write nonsense poems that don't even have the courtesy to rhyme. i want to find you. but i'm afraid that if i do, i'll have to look you in the eyes, tear my ribcage open with bare hands, and say "take your best shot, because i'll never know what it's like to love you until i feel you wound me." i'm keeping my armor on, baby, keeping my ribs knit tight, and trying to be satisfied with my dreams of abstract unwounding "You," because "safe" is the only currency i buy and sell with these days.