The Army Boats

The sea is army-green this evening,
and the wind scrapes across my
tongue like the bow of a violin. All the rosin
in the world would never get me
what I need. The lights of the town don't
reach me nor the sounds of the drunken,
dancing people. I'm not sure I'm still walking
on the rocks. I'm not sure I can taste my tongue.

The sun gets closer every day and the whole
world is on fire. The army boats spit fire across
the swaying waters and I say the rosary,
praying it doesn't reach me, praying it doesn't
find you. Don't you get lost in your army-green.

I can taste the sea, bitter, when I turn my
head. The foam is proud of itself. Damn the foam,
I can only be ashamed of me. The insipid
fingers that whisper across my cheeks-
the metaphor that bites my tongue, the salt
water that stings where the teeth held on,
oh, hell. I'm forgetting myself again. You
remember how I used to say the rosary
over every mistake I made? You
remind me of that every time we speak.

My tongue fails.
My tongue fails, but
you've forgiven me that before.
Every duty is a chalk
mark on my wall until you forgive me.

Do you recognize me?
Or is that the whole problem?

edit; after some thought: To anyone who might be offended at the use of swear words.. I will probably at some point be discoursing on the use of employing things like swearing in art, so if you could hold off judgement of me until then...

22/05/07

Ode To Rudie
Dreadlocked, saxophoned
carpeted and raw-boned
Eyebrow-ringed, red-haired
No one ever really cared.
Avant-garde thinking man
I think I’ll stay; I think I can
The basement is your home for now
That’s sad but you’ll get out somehow.

Dreadlocked, saxophoned
I want more than time on loan
It's a thing you can't afford-
starving artists' fate.
Save the date, save the date
Yesterday is much too late
Shoelaces and cigarettes-
it's you they want and you they'll get.

Dreadlocked and saxophoned
Intermittent, golden-toned
I remember that you said
that growing up got to your head
and I remember Thursday night;
it makes me think that it's alright
that I can rest on sagging steps
and I don’t have to hold my breath
and if you ever come upstairs
well, you know I'll be waiting there.

14/05/2007

I want my own apartment- urgently.
I want not to forget.
I want to support myself with art.
I want to paint the walls cream colored and cover them with everything under the sun.
I want to know how to sew.
I want to own the streets I walk down.
I want people to know my name at the coffeeshop and the bookstore and the thrift store.
I want to drive away whenever I feel like it.
I want the windows open.
I want to improvise.
I want a wicker loveseat that the sun shines on, with illustrious cushions.
I want to dance when I walk and when I stand still.
I want to busk.
I want to stay up late talking.
I want to have teacups.
I want to care.
I want to hold someone's hand.
I want to wake up because I can, not because I have to.
I want to speak, I want to speak what I want to speak. I do not want to speak incompletely. I do not want my words to fail others.
I want to be the girl that you saw walking by and couldn't forget.
I want to be the girl that walked by and smiled.
I want to be the girl who helped.
I want to be the girl who looked different yesterday.
I want to own a little piece of earth where sanity and insanity do not quibble.
I want simple pleasures and pleasures no one else enjoys. I want common pleasures and uncommon pleasures.
I want a blank notebook with cream colored pages that I can fill with everything under the sun.
I want a collage.
I want to have no reason to close myself.
I want to fear no frightening thing.
I want to laugh in the rain.
I want to change the world in small ways.
I want to love freely.
I want to have somewhere to go.
I want to be at home, alone.
I want it to be just right.
I want to be faithful to my thoughts. I do not want to be a hypocrite. I want to love my enemies.
I want to sing.
I want to play songs; I want never to be asked to stop.
I want to find all the things that belong to me.
I want to give.
I want to rise above.
I want to sit in places no one else sits.
I want to talk unafraid.
I want to meet the eyes I couldn't meet.
I want to please the old men and women.
I want to please my mother and father.
I want to please my God.
I want to please myself.
I want to be the girl you had to tell everything to.
I want to be satisfied not to know all the answers.
I want to satisfy others with not knowing.
I want to be content, not knowing what to say.
I want to be kissed.
I want to be remembered.
I want to be loved.
I want to know at a glance how everyone fits into me.
I want to be the girl who didn't assume too much.
I want to wear a dress.
I want to put more into the world than I take out of it.
I want to not be categorized.
I want to be understood. I want to have no need for understanding.
I want to make people brave.
I want to make people happy.
I want to be humble.
I want to say good night, good morning, goodbye.
I want to know stories.
I want to laugh until it hurts.
I want to cry for people.
I want to sacrifice.
I want to understand philosophy and art.
I want to think about what I am saying.
I want to be the girl who didn't hurt you.
I want to be full.
I want to be a remedy.
I want to be moved.
I want to make the tired commuters smile.
I want to make the powerful think twice.
I want to think twice, ten times, a thousand...
I want to not steal.
I want my bed to be waiting for life.
I want the sun to shine in patches in my apartment.
I want my own to be proud of me.
I want to be quiet enough.
I want to know which troubles are truly troubles.
I want mothers to smile at me.
I want musicians to watch me.
I want laughing people to include me.
I want to do, make, say, think.
I want to be sensible. I want to be poetic.
I want to know when to laugh at myself. I want to not always laugh then.
I want to make people talk to me straight. I want to answer straight.
I want to turn around and find you waiting there.
I want to need nothing but Jesus.
I want to need Jesus so badly it hurts.
I want to balance ideas.
I want to make good food.
I want to help needy people.I want to wear a red dress and a teal cardigan.
I want you to be happy because of me.
I want to make you happy in yourself.
I want you to be happy with me.
I want to be happy in me.

The Afterwards

As silly as it might seem, I felt as if I had come home; into my own. I had been in the thrift store for almost an hour, moving slowly among the closely filled racks of clothing, the uneven stacks of tapes, the slanted records, the semi-neat books, and the randomly arranged knickknacks. I was very peaceful, and the volunteers moved among the narrow aisles, never bothering me, sometimes glancing at me. I had my arms full; mostly with records, but also with a skirt and a Sinead O'Connor tape and I clock that I would be dismantling. I had used up all the time I could looking over everything carefully, twice, exchanging my records for others, and looking at the pictures of the sponsored children hung on what little wall space there was, but I knew it was time for me to go.

The bell over the door chimed and a two boys, perhaps twelve, and an older girl came in. I walked past them, not paying too much attention, and released my load onto the counter. I stood, waiting for a volunteer to come, content not to ring the bell or ask for help, but just bide my time. I half-noticed that one of the boys was making strange noises, repeating a short "Aa' sound over and over.

As a volunteer rang up my purchases, the boy came over. His body gently brushed my arm; he stood too close to me. I turned, and he repeated his sound. I realized that he wasn't 'normal', and turned a bit stiff, but half-smiled at him anyways. He hovered at my elbow as I paid, and I kept half-smiling and half-ignoring him.

I was almost proud, and mostly ashamed, of my reaction; but had no idea what it ought to be.

I collected my bags and turned to go, and he laid a hand gently on my arm.

I'm not sure I ever felt more loved in my life.

I'm not sure I've ever spent an hour better.

I'm not sure there could have been a better reaction.

The Send

Last night I dreamed that a girl, perhaps ten years old, with arms like bones waiting to be snapped came and held my wrist. Her eyes were like wells, were good like water. As wide as planets.

She held my wrist and there was an odd meeting of bones. She held on tightly, and it hurt, but in the dream, I didn't mind.

She looked up at me with her swallowing eyes, still trying to suck in enough life to stay open. "You are called Give?" she said, and I could see the spelling that I never used, and it scared me.

For a long time, I said nothing, just stood there with my wrist in her bone-chain hand, in the searing heat, staring at the hard blue sky. She did not press the issue, merely held me too tightly and waited for my thoughts to arrange themselves.

At last I said, "I see; I understand. I cannot be called Give simply because I do not take."

She wavered into a mirage, and perhaps she died on the hot, red dirt before she shimmered away.

Pacific Mosiac

Ah, for the pacific flow
of unmeant conversation
on the tortuous mosaic of
my brain.
Ah, for the milk-white stream
to sooth my bright ideas into
calmness
yet again.
Ah, that I might not speak
one single word from my
sharp-edged thoughts,
but simply tide with
sweet pale falsehood.
Ah, for the graceful flow
of gentle insincerity
down the many-tiled rift
on my chest.
Ah, to lie in peace!

-by Giv, written in February and suddenly brought back to mind yesterday afternoon. I shall pretend there is some vital significance in that.