love notes

here is something

This is the internet: everything here is fiction, everything here is easy.

here is something

In that dream last night, that dream that kept me in bed, helped me ignore the fire alarms, makes me scared to answer a certain email, I was dancing. My feet were pointed and I could float in the air and I did perfect splits. There were other things, yes, of course there were other things (my dream are never so simple) but oh it was wonderful to feel those muscles doing those things, things they haven’t done in years, things that make my calves cramp after only seconds, make my thighs feel like they’re tearing.

I’m going to start again. I would love to have that flexibility, that fluidity of movement back.

Do I really need to tell you these things? Can’t you just read them here? I am so afraid to go into the valley of my self.

here is something

So maybe I romanticize things. Maybe I think that I’ll end up in a one-sided marriage. Maybe I want someone broken because I like that vulnerability and I think it shows that, at least a one point, you were strong. And you can be again.

And maybe I want someone to take care of me because really, I think I’m always going to be a little girl, no matter how grown up those men think I am. But I also want someone to take care of so that I feel important to just one person.

Sure, I like to feel wanted. Being asked to come home with someone is great. For a minute. Being needed is something else entirely.

Mar 30th, 2009 7:00pm

Love in the Cathedral, Miller Williams

poetry365:

“…except you ravish me.”

In the beginning I couldn’t speak to you.
Not because the words wouldn’t come;
it was because they might. Not words like love,
blooming where they fall; words like come here.
When once you turned to look straight at me
out of a crowd, I thought I must have let

the sounds inside my head come out, like “let
us all go home.” I wouldn’t say to you
the wet, small words that moved inside of me.
I have thought that faith and patience would come
to no good end, that you would say, “See here!”
and never say, “Well yes, I think I’d love

to follow you home; to tell the truth, I’d love
to have some wine, then talk awhile, then let
you pleasure me.” Expelled to suffer here,
John Milton wrote of us. I look at you
and in my mind your awful kinsmen come
around every corner, looking for me.

You once talking about the weather with me
and that was something, but it was not love,
did not resemble love. Love ought to come
in recognizable clothes. One day I let
my plain and earthy self talk to you
most gently, saying plainly, “Please come here,”

but everything went wrong, a bah-bah here,
a bah-bah there. You have bumped into me
by accident, I have bumped into you
on purpose on the street where talk of love
was inappropriate, then I have let
my heart hide in the cold and watched you come

laughing and blind. No matter what may come,
give me this: that all this time I stood here
ignored to death and loved you while you let
every chance go; say your glances at me
suggested almost anything but love;
say I know you cry in bed, poor you.

Believe in love. You know that I am here
to let you loose. Here is my flesh for you
who ay abide with me till kingdom come.

Words, Miller Williams

poetry365:

Strip to the waist and have a seat. The doctor
will be in soon. He smiles and the nurse smiles.
He sits on the table, bumping his knees together,
scratching around is navel, counting the tiles.

We never talk, she says, and so you talk
and everything you speak of falls apart.
This is how we come to understand
what they mean by chambers of the heart.

Some words are said to start a conversation.
Some, after which there’s nothing more to say.
“Amen,” for instance. “I said I was sorry.”
“Tower, we’re going down. This is PSA.”

Oh the love I have for Miller Williams.

here is something

My rambling sounds better when it’s been written down and filtered through the more poetic side of my mind.

I’m very good at getting myself into things that will very likely end up messy.

122, Osip Madelstam

poetry365:

Let me be in your service
like the others
mumbling predictions,
moth dry with jealousy.
Parched tongue
thirsting, not ever for a word—
for me the dry air is empty
again without you.

I’m not jealous any more
but I want you.
I carry myself like a victim
to the hangman.
I will not call you
either joy or love.
All my own blood is gone.
Something strange paces there now.

Another moment
and I will tell you:
it’s not joy but torture
you give me.
I’m drawn to you
as to a crime—
to your ragged mouth,
to the soft bitten cherry.

Come back to me,
I’m frightened without you.
Never had you such power
over me as now.
Everything I desire
appears to me.
I’m now jealous any more.
I’m calling you.