(no subject)
This is...part of a story I wrote. A friend of mine asked me if he could have it and rewrite it as a poem. This is what he did. I think it's kind of neat.
1
His apartment is
an uneasy place,
balancing
its slanted ceilings,
and wooden buttress
above a bakery
on the East side of town.
A futon
as the centerpiece
the wooden floor
an enormous tabletop
we, perched
on his bed,
two pears in a dish.
When I am in his home
I am ripe and heavy,
slightly panicky
and deathly afraid of any aging.
2
Sometimes I think
he has gone too
far
with the "Zen thing;"
white-washed walls,
single silver lamps
rice paper shades
(candlesticks to our dish)
the nothingness.
He proclaims
to be interested in symmetrical traffic,
the flow of energy.
I listen raptly,
always wondering if I do so
genuinely or mockingly.
I embrace the potential
for growth
by allowing the
mystery.
3
after we finish speaking,
long periods of silence.
he fills them with music;
there is only the current of the words
we have spoken;
a warm bath
to soak
in what's been said.
We float for hours,
just seconds before its completely cool
filled again with
new warmth and words.
We get distracted
by the passing of hours.
We roll them over
our lives
like a balm.
4
To say there is no
sexual element
would be a lie
and to say there is
would be an exaggeration.
His loft is
a blank slate
each day we paint a new picture,
knowing when we leave
it will all be erased.
Sometimes what we paint is
sexual,
but we are no more lovers than
children
dressed in their
parents clothing
are adults.
We play at sex
when we are satisfied with our invention,
we move on to the next.
It could be anything.
Often, it's coffee.
When I am alone
I do not attempt
to explain
our relationship.
I watch it,
move backward
through what we have created
and I am pleased.
5
In late September
I whisper in
his ear,
the most intimate things I can muster
I feel them coming out raw
edgy,
the embarrassment
a placenta.
I am not sure what he thinks beauty is.
6
"I have blood, I am messy. I have tiny dark hairs around my anus. I want you to think I'm
beautiful. I want you to think I'm
beautiful."
7
He stares at
me
ignores the words,
a polite gesture.
He reaches into his wallet
and gives me all his money.
My face flushes.
He has paid me for
my performance,
at least I interpret it
as a scolding..
I crawl up
next to him
wanting to think
about anything other than me.
I choose gorillas..
He embraces,
and forgives
and we fall asleep
putting a sloppy promise
in the oven.
We will wake up
better people.
Maybe perfect.
He comments that he has never
seen hair
around my anus.
I give him some of his money back
and we all asleep
breaking even.
8
I don't know at what point
I made
the decision
to make him my Priest
but it happened,
despite my Protestant upbringing
and his lack of questioning
(judgment)
me.
Maybe his blind
acceptance
is what drove me to words.
I assumed he granted me
greater latitude
than was necessary;
I wanted to show him
it wasn't as bad as I thought
I started with my schooling;
it seemed an appropriate place
to branch out into
numerous subjects.
9
I used to want to be a police officer.
In fact,
I already am.
I am the best police officer some city has ever seen.
I imagine it's in
the Northeast. I believe in Community
Policing
and know most of the residents
by first name.
I prevent
more crimes than I solve
and walk the streets
with a tired smile
full of secrecy,
a tab of near-disasters.
There are other officers
on my department
but they are not exactly
here for the same reason
and have become less real
in their work for it.
I am here solely in an occupational capacity
and it shines
as bright as blood
under flashlight.
For the crimes that occur
while I sleep
I find them fresh
in the mornings.
Just when the sky is
turning
over from gray
to rust
I stumble upon bullets
still smoking,
broken glass
and fingerprints.
I am always in the right place
at the right time
and never in any danger.
I like that no one knows
I am a police officer,
and I like that in the life
where I am,
no one knows I am a hero;
the sort who saves
lives
without comment.
In this other life
I have policing
down to an art
and move through the streets
as graceful as any
ballerina.
1
His apartment is
an uneasy place,
balancing
its slanted ceilings,
and wooden buttress
above a bakery
on the East side of town.
A futon
as the centerpiece
the wooden floor
an enormous tabletop
we, perched
on his bed,
two pears in a dish.
When I am in his home
I am ripe and heavy,
slightly panicky
and deathly afraid of any aging.
2
Sometimes I think
he has gone too
far
with the "Zen thing;"
white-washed walls,
single silver lamps
rice paper shades
(candlesticks to our dish)
the nothingness.
He proclaims
to be interested in symmetrical traffic,
the flow of energy.
I listen raptly,
always wondering if I do so
genuinely or mockingly.
I embrace the potential
for growth
by allowing the
mystery.
3
after we finish speaking,
long periods of silence.
he fills them with music;
there is only the current of the words
we have spoken;
a warm bath
to soak
in what's been said.
We float for hours,
just seconds before its completely cool
filled again with
new warmth and words.
We get distracted
by the passing of hours.
We roll them over
our lives
like a balm.
4
To say there is no
sexual element
would be a lie
and to say there is
would be an exaggeration.
His loft is
a blank slate
each day we paint a new picture,
knowing when we leave
it will all be erased.
Sometimes what we paint is
sexual,
but we are no more lovers than
children
dressed in their
parents clothing
are adults.
We play at sex
when we are satisfied with our invention,
we move on to the next.
It could be anything.
Often, it's coffee.
When I am alone
I do not attempt
to explain
our relationship.
I watch it,
move backward
through what we have created
and I am pleased.
5
In late September
I whisper in
his ear,
the most intimate things I can muster
I feel them coming out raw
edgy,
the embarrassment
a placenta.
I am not sure what he thinks beauty is.
6
"I have blood, I am messy. I have tiny dark hairs around my anus. I want you to think I'm
beautiful. I want you to think I'm
beautiful."
7
He stares at
me
ignores the words,
a polite gesture.
He reaches into his wallet
and gives me all his money.
My face flushes.
He has paid me for
my performance,
at least I interpret it
as a scolding..
I crawl up
next to him
wanting to think
about anything other than me.
I choose gorillas..
He embraces,
and forgives
and we fall asleep
putting a sloppy promise
in the oven.
We will wake up
better people.
Maybe perfect.
He comments that he has never
seen hair
around my anus.
I give him some of his money back
and we all asleep
breaking even.
8
I don't know at what point
I made
the decision
to make him my Priest
but it happened,
despite my Protestant upbringing
and his lack of questioning
(judgment)
me.
Maybe his blind
acceptance
is what drove me to words.
I assumed he granted me
greater latitude
than was necessary;
I wanted to show him
it wasn't as bad as I thought
I started with my schooling;
it seemed an appropriate place
to branch out into
numerous subjects.
9
I used to want to be a police officer.
In fact,
I already am.
I am the best police officer some city has ever seen.
I imagine it's in
the Northeast. I believe in Community
Policing
and know most of the residents
by first name.
I prevent
more crimes than I solve
and walk the streets
with a tired smile
full of secrecy,
a tab of near-disasters.
There are other officers
on my department
but they are not exactly
here for the same reason
and have become less real
in their work for it.
I am here solely in an occupational capacity
and it shines
as bright as blood
under flashlight.
For the crimes that occur
while I sleep
I find them fresh
in the mornings.
Just when the sky is
turning
over from gray
to rust
I stumble upon bullets
still smoking,
broken glass
and fingerprints.
I am always in the right place
at the right time
and never in any danger.
I like that no one knows
I am a police officer,
and I like that in the life
where I am,
no one knows I am a hero;
the sort who saves
lives
without comment.
In this other life
I have policing
down to an art
and move through the streets
as graceful as any
ballerina.