This Poem Kills Platitudes

My friend Juni's father wrote this poem. He has died, and she wasn't even aware that he'd written poetry.

The words here, the simplicity of how they're written, the rawness of it, the aching vulnerability, I've just got tears streaming down my face.

This is what love is. This is how you love. Belief or acceptance of anything else won't get you very far.

And fuck Chris for not wanting to try.

***

I have a need for you to be what I make you.
It's very difficult for me
to let you come to me
on your own,
as only what you are

and

I have a need to be what you want to make me.
It's very difficult for me
to come to you
on my own, 
as only what I am.

I am afraid

Maybe,
if I give you my fear
the way will open
for us to come together,
as only what we are.

I would like to try. ~Liam Grimm

A Middling Poem On My Current Goings On

I'm afraid I've not much to say.
The demons are at bay;
I ache from work*, not from play.

I see my friends, I drink a little wine,
I catch the eye of a cutie from time to time**.

It's all nice, it proves to suffice,
And I sleep soundly in the winter's rime.


*Temp job at a hospital through the end of the month; will at least pay my bills for the rest of this month and rent for next, methinks.
**As a function of said job, I was at a hardware store with a medical supply rep trying to get 504 plastic dividers cut to spec. Cutie was cutting our dividers. Definitely a spark there, we smiled and made googly eyes at one another. Medical rep took me back to the hospital so I could get started on assembly, and he told me he was gonna get me a date with this guy. ha. In the end, he wound up cutting his finger and had to be taken to get a stitch by his boss. So med rep guy asked the lad's coworkers about him; 31 and single. I've got an apology bottle of Rogue's Dead Guy Ale in my fridge to take him tomorrow, along with a note including my phone number. He makes me wish I had an Econoline van. He's definitely "If this van's a rockin' don't come knockin'" material.

I think it's time to get back on the old saddle and have a proper shag partner.

I Told You So (Panic Attack)

The poem came immediately after stating that poetry was coming. That's two poems now in a month, and several art pieces. This, for me, is highly productive. The previous poem written on a page of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, while on the curvaceous, scenic road from Ely to Duluth that always makes me have a bit of a panic, despite it's loveliness, if I am not constantly sipping water and/or singing. When I was younger, when the particular problem first began, I remember Celine Dion on the radio. Then it was my Tori's Under the Pink on cassette, foisted upon my parents lest they have to deal with a freaking out teenager. It should be noted that I had no idea I was having a panic attack, something that had begun intermittently before puberty that my mother would hand me a paper bag for and send me outside to breathe. In late teen years, she resorted to giving me Xanax (while also telling me to go outside and breathe). It was always very matter of fact. I never understood why she failed to inform me that what was happening to me, the I can't breathe feeling, the overwhelming head-maelstrom, the sense of total doom, that it was something silly that I could plainly understand; my body producing too much epinephrine. This being a facet, evolutionarily speaking, of the "flight or flight" ha "FIGHT or flight" response. Which, it's been argued in some of the things I've read, is not the accurate interpretation as invariably, when someone experiences such a rush of epinephrine, they are somewhat immobilised by their panic. So what purpose, exactly, does a panic attack have?

I don't know. Writing this has put that old familiar feeling in my chest, a firm grip in a negative way, on the old blood pumper. I will get the fuck out of this house once I'm done with this blog (and a shower). Sarah needs some Cheerios and the dishes won't get done if there ain't no dishwasher detergent.

But the poem(s). Without further ado, poem one is about Andy, written on the road.

He wears his neurosis on his sleeve,
by an invention of his heart.
With a tug on one,
the other falls apart.
It is not foolproof,
this failsafe he's set;
He's already told me he loves me,
He just hasn't said the words yet.

10.18.09

And last night's, with a first couplet that's been in my head since Andy chose to take the route he has with us:

Any who run from love
be hung from the rafters
Any who stifle love
crucified on the mantle
Any who lie to love
dragged behind a truck
Any who "deserve" love
a shard of broken mirror
Any who ignore love
murder murder murder

11.14.09