these gaps of us

these gaps of us

My mind is racing
As it always will
My hand is tired my heart aches
I'm half a world away here…

My shoes are gone
My life spent…

“Half a World Away,” R.E.M., Out of Time

“All love serenades must come to an end….As she gazes

at Milton in the newsreel, her eyes fill with tears

and she says out loud, 'There was nowhere I could go

that wouldn’t be you.'”—Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

i have weighed myself daily for seventy days

but scales cannot reveal what i am missing

(you)

although i know that you missing is heavier

than anything i have ever felt or lifted

and there is a certain hollowness that echoes

inside my chest and ears endlessly but silent

there have always been gaps of us

beginning with the nearly four decades

before you walked into my world

and then crawled into my chest like a song

but the gaps of us always held the promise

of crossing paths once again inevitable

and warm as the rising sun or your just words

written spoken or whispered in my memory

until now or more accurately then

that last moment that i did not know was last

hovering always above me like an anvil or rhyme

stationary but never falling or revealing

that other word to consummate the patterns of us

•

i weigh the same but am empty

i fear that soon i’ll float away

and no cast can mend a broken heart

no prosthetic can replace this amputation

i tread in the wake of my memories

and confess in a catechism of whispers

i am not equipped for this

i lack the capacity to survive

this gap of us now rendered forever

loss is just a word

loss is just a word

I am breathing water.
I am breathing water.
you know a body's got to breathe.

"Undertow," R.E.M., New Adventures in Hi-Fi 

you're putting on a shirt
a shirt I'll never see

"Lucky You," The National, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers

loss is just a word for where you no longer are

with me

but losing you?

not something i can really do

(on the night of winter solstice
in the time when you were gone

i dreamed of summer's sun

and woke alone&sweating)

absence&forgetting are frail foes to memory

coursing through my veins

you are everywhere&always

although i am not sure you ever trusted

that i could smell you enter any room

even before i would see you

so on a starry full-moon night

or when the sun is high and the day is warm

i can lie on the earth and press my palms to dirt or grass

and, yes, there you are

walking sock-footed across carpet in a room

where i am not

light (the irretrievable allure of outdoors)

light (the irretrievable allure of outdoors)

And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be.
…Now all I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme,
Juliet, I'd do the stars with you any time!

“Romeo and Juliet,” Dire Straits, Making Movies

rM126 realized one day

hospitals, school, and work had one thing

in common—banks of fluorescent lights

but his whole life had been inside so far

(only stories told of sunshine and outside)

then one day he stood in the blinding light

that had been his entire life indoors

feeling a nagging sense that this glare

was somehow not all that existed

when he heard a female voice say (he thought)

outdoors as if the world stopped spinning

he turned and his eyes landed on jC316

clicking his racing mind into gear thinking

what could the sun feel like against my skin

what could my lips feel pressed against hers

things he was forbidden to think or do inside

the only life and world he had been allowed

and he felt for the first time his heart there

as if expanding too large for his chest and mind

he knew that he would have to tell her this

he knew that he would have to ask her to risk

the light outdoors not the light indoors

and the irretrievable allure of things done

together

bone-deep (after the scarring)

bone-deep (after the scarring)

three psychiatrists, sixteen surgeons, and eighty-two operations

but they all agreed this was the only way

to erase her from the skeleton of him

surgery after surgery

this scraping away

of her from his bones

weeks turned into months

and months to years

erasing and healing

and in the end he found himself

disrobing and walking around

the apartment he filled with mirrors

watching the stitches crisscrossing

and conjuring this new him

absent her once tattooed in bone

then they all had to agree despite it all

there she remained

these hieroglyphs scarring his skin

reading a biography (in the absence of you)

reading a biography (in the absence of you)

i found myself sitting in my office

suddenly crying april 11, 2007

having just learned Kurt Vonnegut died

& this lingered for days & days

sudden sweeping tears & anguish

for this man i never met or knew

except for words that poured into print

then more than four years later

i sat in my bed reading his biography

“He died April 11, 2007” its last sentence

& again tears filled my eyes & my chest heaved

although this is the only way biography can end

(i toyed with reading it backward page by page

like Billy Pilgrim watching the movie of war)

but this second time was in the shadow

of the absence of you

my realization that you were not there

& you would never be there again

although you still walk this earth

having chosen to set me aside for another life

this second crying is selfish & empty

like the refrain of loneliness

running though Vonnegut’s life

like a blue thread in a black black cloth

precious infidelity (bibliophilia)

precious infidelity (bibliophilia)

he fell in love for the first time

really fell deeply in love

in high school

(but this is not about girls

or women

with those love happened

much earlier and spontaneously

and has failed each time

or at least he has failed them)

this is falling in love with books

and it is the plural that is precious

he often reads two or three books at once

and he never has to hide his cell phone

or pretend he is reading only one book

and he carries them all together everywhere

this book holds his heart as others have and do

and there will be more and more and more

this orgy of unbridled reading and touching

each page where he underlines and highlights

this bibliophilia is absent jealousy or possession

although paper pales against bone muscle and skin

flirting with a life only spoken

flirting with a life only spoken

We’re drunk and sparking, our legs are open

Our hands are covered in cake

But I swear we didn’t have any

“The Geese of Beverly Road,” The National, Alligator

someone had to tell him

and even then he may not have listened

a recipe is not a cake

he had a certain affection for words like trapeze

or parachute or the curve of her neck when she’s laughing close-eyed

but he couldn’t even compel himself to watch the movie

of the man who found himself trapped by his arm under a boulder

much less swinging through the air high above the ground

or leaping from a plane with only cloth and rope to guide him down

or leaning close to press his face and lips against her humming throat

no he did not need to make decisions about cutting himself free

in order to return somewhat disfigured to a life being lived

instead his was less dramatic: flirting with a life only spoken

narrated like a voice-over in a movie always being filmed

•

people had made him think

over and over about this bag of rocks

he gripped until his knuckles turned white

and his wrist ached to the point of breaking

it became this thing of carrying with no intent

no quarry left or sought for his bag of rocks

just a denial like an oath or solitary confession

shouted in an empty forest of trees bare of leaves

•

paralysis was more than a word however

for him

like stasis

or Sisyphus always in pause at rock and hard place

some times (disguise)

some times (disguise)

some times

i say "hello"

and i mean

"i love you"

some times

i send you songs

and i mean

nearly beautiful as you

some times

i offer nothing

and i mean

you are everywhere in me

some times

"some times" means "always"

can you for me

some times be?

cinco de mayo

cinco de mayo

it may be the symmetry

fifth month fifth day

just as spring raises

its soft soft head warmly

but he knew it was her

a mouth warm wet blossoming

& he knew the celebration

the beer & wine & food

were no mere piñatas

or sombreros on the sidewalk—

it was that her mouth had said

i am yours, all of me, yours

without speaking a word

until his blood knew:

yo no puedo hablar acerca del amor

pero la boca y las manos lo pueden mostrar

a banana, peanut butter, & two slices of wheat bread (a koan)

a banana, peanut butter, & two slices of wheat bread (a koan)

"Used with moderation, a first-class verse is an excellent and unusually fast-working form of heat therapy."

Seymour--An Introduction, J. D. Salinger

it was there

he paused

considering the first bite

of the peanut butter & banana sandwich

at what point to take the first bite?

& if he changed today

would the entire world spin differently

then?

(the question was like sitting

in bright early summer sunshine)

shoes (did you know)

shoes (did you know)

there we were in a hotel room

alone & together

a rare & precious thing

me watching you

take out those shoes

cork platform soles with long white cloth straps for your ankles

& as you carefully put on each shoe

wrapping & unwrapping

to get them just right

i wondered if you knew

when you bought them

that this would fill my chest

& now that this moment is behind us

when you are putting on those shoes

do you pause thinking of me

a man carrying that memory

beneath the surface of his skin

itching to untie those shoes

slipping them from your feet only

facades & fingertips

facades & fingertips

“to be that self which one truly is”

Soren Kiekegaard

take off

your make-up

& your clothes

& please come

to me—

i’ll trace you

all of you

with my fingertips—

(this is much more

than a sexual request)

the tiny red dot

on the bridge

of your nose—

the spider veins

& scars & bruises

over your legs—your legs—

show them to me—

reveal them all to me—

give your Self to me—

give yourself to me—

            because—it is you—

            i am here for—

            my eyes hungry—

                        these flaws of you—

            yes—

            i swear—i shout—

            it is you—these layers of you—

            i am here for—

turn around—

spin around—

roll over me—

            over&over me—

here—i am looking—

looking for you—

reaching for you—

searching for the me of me—

            inside of you—

            my eyes closed—

            watching

aching

aching

“What's the Czech for ‘Do you love him’?” Guy, Once

i used to make you smile and laugh

aching for and with

as you, me

the attraction marrow-deep

pulling as if gravity

or god were a puppeteer—

(in the pictures you sent

you and yours are smiling

as i, looking at them)

do people carry tambourines

rattling the rhythms of song

as if a movie or music video?

because there are songs that pull

at me like you

my head rocking

the music and lyrics

stronger than the physics of planets

or deities with string

and it your song always

vibrating through me

as water or oxygen

tap dancing marionettes us

semiotics: nothing done in haste

semiotics: nothing done in haste

did she do that

for me alone

her hair done that way

& the turquoise ribbon

not like the women

doing their faces

as they drive to work

making faces

for anyone

done in haste

did she do that

for me alone

the tilt of her shoulders

as she walks along the beach

her hand held

just that way

left foot ahead

of the other

one heel lifted slightly

above the sand

& the entire skin

of her among shadows

leaving me undone

and wordless

this sunken ship

beached beneath the tide

i wave at this picture

of her walking away

saving face

done for me alone

the language of should

the language of should

i know what i should do now—

of course

i have always known—

as if knowing is something

simple and clear

as ice formed on my fingernails

but should is no more a part of me

than not loving you—

as i know i should leave that behind—

listening over and over

to a song about letting go—

doing as he should and she wishes. . .

there is a much different story

here however—

a story of the bone of the matter

nailed, sanded, shaped with care

a story of being that is beyond should

and bitter to the fingertips

but this story can fill a glass

or make your eyes well up

unlike the commandments offered

in the language of should—

in this story he built a house—

a façade in fact

an igloo of stucco and wood—

only the appearance of ice

like the appearance of letting go

if i were to bow before leaving

the intoxicating (and thus the war)

the intoxicating (and thus the war)

you drank three beers

and i had to continue across

the surface of this earth

as if i weren't thinking

about how your lips

must taste of beer and you

this intoxicating you

leaving me lost inside

the smell of you nearby

do the beers

leave you weak

in the knees and ankles

the way your

knees and ankles

leave me weak

as soon as i smell

you enter a room

turning to see. . .

•

and thus the war. . .

it is my body

longing and calling

for the intoxicating

to shut off the mind

or at least drown out

the thoughts fretting

over right and wrong

fair and unfair

what other people might think

just walking to you

taking you in my arms

and kissing you fully

and it is this argument

my body fights for

in the war with my mind:

nothing else truly matters

in the intoxicating momentum

of your flesh and blood and bone

•

if you and i were passing

and i slipped falling

reaching for you to save me

and my craving hand

clasped your soft grip

kindness sighing through your lips

would any single soul

ask if this were fair or right

our reaching without thinking?

hey, hey my body pleads

for my mind to call your way

i am always falling falling falling

i breath near you

as close as possible

to taste your soul again

these metronomes

these metronomes

these metronomes

of hair and hips

like beatings hearts

and the mindlessness of breathing

you there

walking or jogging

and twisting my heart

taking my breath away

these metronomes

calling out to my bones

are there marching orders

for the springtime. . .

like clouds of pollen swarming

and trees swayed by warming wind. . .

like sleeveless shirts

and pants o so short. . .

like a sound track to the cycles

and dances of crisscrossing our planet. . .

i am left tapping out the rhythm

of my hands reaching for the swaying

curves of you waving waving to me

shoulder into arm ringed in tattoo. . .

where your thumb and finger meet. . .

the tightening of skin over ankle bone. . .

tick-tock hair

tick-tock hips

tick-tock steps

these metronomes

driving me to songs of longing

can you hear my fingertips calling you

playing air piano and drum calling

silent whisperings

these metronomes

she could

she could

she could fold herself into her desk,

and we worshipped her—

posed like a virginal, erotic buddha

we, adolescent and male, idolized her delicate pose,

legs intertwined and a casual wrist against her jaw—

our imaginations fractured by beauty

she was thin and fragile as each of her hairs

and pristine as shattered glass—

the treasured fragments embedded in our bare feet

we were no mere spectators kneeling, always kneeling

at her throne, at her carelessness—

scattered pulses of urgency and dedication to fire

she anointed us with indifference and a toss of her head,

although she basked in the warmth at her ankles—

the flames were inside and out for us

we took her though, eventually, covertly, stored in our minds

as if the crystals worked up through our flesh into our brains—

her, folded like a magic, yellowing letter in our memories

no one teaches us

no one teaches us

no one teaches us

to love

it doesn’t happen to us

it happens in us

it is a tripping and stumbling

this falling in love

and when it is true

it is also deep

and this falling

lasts forever

•

some people scoff

saying it is just pheromones

as if the chemicals of us

must be less than our decisions

(so if i did not chose to love you

that means less than this TV i chose?)

and no one teaches us

to breath in and out

and no one teaches us

to pull our hands from a flame

•

“no one ever teaches us

anything worth knowing or doing”

this is what he told his students

“i could make you do many things

by force of harm or prize”

his heart was gone by then

“but this is what people will do

telling you right and wrong”

his body had given it away to her

“as if anyone could know

what to teach another”

it was hard to talk always falling

“no one teaches us to love

it happens in us like a dream”

he held on to things breathing deeply

•

sometimes when he was talking

(people still called it teaching)

he stood with one hand

clutching something nearby

the other raised slightly

fingers opened and palm up

at night he slept and dreamed

holding on to the headboard

because no one teaches us

to fall into our dreams either

•

then what does a teacher do

who no longer believes in teaching

then what does a lover do

who has lost the one he loves

then what does a human do

too far below the surface

then what does a person do

with everything engulfed in flames

no one teaches us

to reach for the hand that matters

•

“what other conclusion could any of us

reach?”

blouses & skirts

blouses & skirts

she            keeps pressing

her hand

            to her chest,

closing off her breasts

from my eyes (the possibility of my eyes)

fighting her v-neck

flaring open

every time she moves

never realizing

her knees, calves, and ankles

            there below her skirt—

no hose, bare and shaved smooth

as living, polished ivory, though tanned—

are my fascinations,

me staring at the crossing and uncrossing

the dangling shoe

from a bare foot,

            a slip of the hem

exposing a knee

flagging me to worship there

at her feet

as she clutches at her own heart—

mine pounding,

            walked on,

kicked and stomped and smothered and scissored,

by those legs,

joint to joint,

hip, knee, ankle:

            i buckle from the weight

            collapsing

boa (wearing my daughter around my neck)

boa (wearing my daughter around my neck)

i am wearing

my daughter

around my neck

bound to wander

telling my story

of failing her

this is what

people do asking

how is your daughter?

and my story

repeats itself

a cyclic plot

she doesn't care

the way i care

she doesn't seem sad

the way i am sad

she doesn't notice

the way i notice

the pull of an adult child

around the neck

hangs heavier than human weight

i love my daughter

i love people who care

how do i love a daughter who doesn't care?

and i grow tired

weary of my voice

and the story i tell and retell

if—pining (my three-legged-table life)

if—pining (my three-legged-table life)

if this were an ideal world—

not ideal, just undisturbed, balanced—

where my words wouldn’t

overturn my three-legged-table life

knocking everything—every thing—

onto a tiled floor—

spilled, broken, irreparable, irrecoverable—

fine delicate cups and plates—

this life of mine—

filled with scalding coffee

and food that spoils in the heat—

if this were a balanced world

then i would say to you—

just before kissing the curve of your neck

just before pulling you to me

my hand on the small of your back—

i would say to you:

satin sheets have nothing on you—

not warmth or lure or pleasure or comfort—

absolutely nothing on you—

except the freedom from my pining

my fruitless inexpressible

but it is my three-legged-table life

with settings arranged, the food served

so i offer instead my incomplete wordless apologies

and the softest place at the center of me

where you can lie without disturbing

this high-wire act by an essentially clumsy man

the sorry is retroactive and preemptive

no ifs