You Never Live In the Worlds You Save

by heytherewildflower

Tin Roof
by Michael Ondaatje

She hesitated. ‘Are you being romantic now?’
‘I’m trying to tell you how I feel without
exposing myself. You know what I mean?’

You stand still for three days
for a piece of wisdom
and everything falls to the right place

or wrong place

You speak
don’t know whether
seraph or bitch
flutters at your heart

and look through windows
for cue cards
blazing in the sky.

The solution
This last year I was sure
I was going to die

All night
the touch

of wave on volcano.

There was the woman
who clutched my hair
like a shaken child.
The radio whistles
round a lost wave length.

All night slack-key music
and the bird whistling duino,
duino, duino, words and music
entangled in pebble
ocean static.
The wild sea and her civilization
the league of the Divine Wind
and traditions of death.

those women in the movies
who wept into the hair
of their dead men?

DUmb TV shows like Grey’s Anatomy make me cry. slash that. make me SOB. if we’re going to be honest. because I am not afraid to lose control over something as silly as a tv show I can barely get through watching in one sitting. Drinking makes me cry on the occasion, because its good to let it loose for no good reason at all, just because, just because I am alone and drunk.

but the more serious the occasion, like if you’re telling me something awful, or a piece of music strangles the breath out of my addled lungs, or a poem slices me in half, I don’t cry, I can’t cry, unless caught off guard. Usually these sorts of emotional slamfucks fester in my brain and seed into my guts until I can’t bear it.

IF something is important to me, I freeze up, try to distance myself from it, exit my body as a witness to my own phony reactions and facial expressions, the performance of how I express emotions, and mock my hollow efforts at being a human. of course, catch me off guard and it’s a different story. and writing, for me, is the activity of stripping away my own control over myself, or, at times, the activity of organizing the chaos of my double time over thinking hyperactive brain. and the best poems do both at once.

So in this journey of being a fucking responsible and put together human being,  of learning to take responsibility for my actions and for my own living. health. healthy thinking. healthy eating. healthy sleeping. I think I am now satisfied with my home making and life restructuring. It’s not perfect but it’s functional. It’s functional, and, I’d say, over all, genuinely the most content and happy and myself I’ve felt since senior year of high school.

SO I have a new mission. loosen my grip on myself. let myself be. think less about thinking too much, dismiss the anxious thought circles, let things go. have faith that I am doing the right thing and the people I love and care about are also doing the right think and it’s not my responsibility to keep anxious tabs on all things at all times. and its not my responsibility to take the blame for everything, because in fact, it’s narcissistic. and obnoxious. and not doing anyone any good.

In other words, if you need me, CALL ME BABY

don’t you worry. I think you are wonderful.

PLAYBOY: So if the women in your songs have become more real, if there are fewer goddesses –

DYLAN: The goddess isn’t real. A pretty woman as a goddess is just up there on a pedestal. The flower is what we are really concerned about here. The opening and the closing, the growth, the bafflement. You don’t lust after flowers.

PLAYBOY: Your regard for women, then, has changed?

DYLAN: People are people to me. I don’t single out women as anything to get hung up about.

PLAYBOY: But in the past?

DYLAN: In the past, I was guilty of that shameless crime.

PLAYBOY: You’re claiming to be completely rehabilitated?

DYLAN: That is all we did in those days. Writing in the back seats of cars and writing songs on street corners or on porch swings. Seeking out the explosive areas of life.

You Never Live in the Worlds You Save

Death, thou shalt die! Explanation point, without your Death! what will you do
with yourself?
shall die

I was spoon fed pumpkin cheesecake on the birthday
of the baby tiger, by the tiger himself. I bought the cheesecake.

reclined, the baby tiger, his eyes were drowsily almost closed. but I caught
a glimpse, the slice beneath a fan of heavy lashes, bright scythe of his eye
it still was glimpsing me, I am caught
coveting his eye upon my flesh, too much.

I was trying to find a poem that wasn’t about love
I was trying to find a song that wasn’t about love
I was trying to find a fantasy that wasn’t about sex
I was trying to find a cat that wasn’t about the house
I was trying to find a cloud without it lacking an olympus
I was trying to find Ophelia without Persephone
I was trying to find Hamlet without a hint of death
I was trying to find mother without breast
I was trying to find breast without feast
and was there a feast without Homer’s first singing note ?

I tried to write a letter to the future, but the weather recked it
it was barely legible when it got there, either by rain streaks
or streaks of my own snotty past trying to become permanent upon the page
i tried to jump off and die

I tried to find a wilted flower that had never known the full bloom of itself
I tried to find a rattling flower head with a full head of teeth– all of its seeds.
I tried to find a perfect full blossom in the spring
but summer had already claimed her.
I tried to burst into full blossom all at once, but the wind recked my ambition–
took something,

cast it like die
into the fall air