Taking Time
-after Pablo Neruda
It so happens
that I get sick
of being sober.
I wake up to the hangover
without so much as a bottle
of cough syrup. I stumble
in and out of bars,
slur in tongues.
I get sick of collecting
abstinent coins that buy
nothing and sick of marking
days since the last drink.
Raised glasses passed
to me for trial—double
chocolate stouts, coconut
curry lagers, dark
pumpkin ales—I taste.
I am cautious. I know
this is not the same,
but remember stories
about concentration camps,
how survivors could only be fed
a little at a time or die.
hangs over me like a shower head.
All I can do is stare into it,
my eyes full of glistening privilege.
The second I blink, it becomes
a spitting cobra. I blink anyway.
Sometimes, when my eyes clear,
I see a woman. She wears a hat.
It’s red, wide brimmed.
She is bare ankled,
sails a circle of stars.
I get sick as well of this land of thou
shalt nots, its constant virtue
talk of god as we understood him,
sick of people trying to convince
themselves of what they believe,
of letting people convince them of things
that simply are not true.
Such talk presupposes more than one
should be comfortable with.
Such a god surely must be
long haired and insecure,
grimy and chaotic,
and full of bones.
I don’t want all this stability.
I don’t want water and lemon juice,
or to be a geranium, potted and stuck
on some balcony in lurid sunlight.
What a dream it would be
to find myself dropped
into a vodka clear pool,
nestle into its bottom-most curve,
hold my breath forever
like a stark white onion pearl.
Prone
No one thinks of me as accident
prone or knows how, as a boy,
I’d wet the bed or wake up
on the floor next to it. My mother
heard a prophecy. I would die
by misfortune. It stands to reason
if she could find some way to keep me
from harm, I could avoid a lifetime
of scraped knees, sprains and strains
falling from trees. Of course
there are so many small joys
I’ve never realized. Never
stubbed my toe on the bedpost,
cut myself shaving. Every night
Mother inspected me for pain
I did not feel. She knew better.
There were other dangers. Playmates
rushed home with injuries, questionable
and serious, the subsequent moving
from one village to the next.
No one saw the potential, no one
but Odysseus. He knew. He saw
the silks that Mother hoped would
hide me from battle. Boys will be boys.
One peek into a box of weapons,
and I’m off to war. But really,
what do you do with a kid like me
but make me a soldier? What better field
for a dangerous klutz than the battlefield,
the one place where disaster becomes victory?
I am no warrior.
My entire life is action
without thought.
I can’t touch my sword
without putting it through somebody.
“I was just cleaning it Sarge, honest.”
Armored chaos they call me.
But one day, when the carnage
reaches its height, when I’m tired
of tripping over my sandals,
one day I’ll kick them off,
flex my uncalloused feet
against the earth. That’s all I want,
comfort, without protection,
just once.
Retaliatory Love Poem
If you are in pursuit, this is your avoidant.
If you are pursued, this is your addict.
Retaliatory love always comes
close,very close. If you want chocolate,
it gives you mocha.
Retaliatory love always takes its time
and yours. It sets very clear boundaries
for you, knows what you think, always says so.
It’s the guilt and fear you feel
when facing too many kinds of peanut butter.
The Venus of Willendorf, Goya’s Saturn,
retaliatory love adores these. Either one
might look like you. Retaliatory love handles truth
dangerously and looks west
after high noon. It’s love that never needs to pick a lock,
but knows how. It’s endless supply.
The bottle is never empty.
The needles are always clean.
One out of every five I-love-you’s is retaliatory.
It’s sirens, both kinds—
the one blaring its brazen song from the firetruck,
promising what you think will be salvation,
and the one dying for you
to discover, half a second too late,
the rocks wandering just under the waves.
Retaliatory love doesn’t come with strings,
but labels, has to be your spouse, your lover,
your significant other. It will never befriend you,
never provide benefits.
At any moment, retaliatory love can replace sex
with mahjong. The greeting card companies
do not want you to know any of this
or to know that they know any of this.
Retaliatory love never lets go and knows
getting away and getting away with it
are not the same. If you don’t give your heart,
retaliatory love calls you heartless.
If you do, it calls you heartless.
