Untitled (I come for you, I)

Untitled (I come for you, I)

A great impression lay
underneath my eyes
and there it lay
underneath my skin
below the three levels of bone,
marrow & spirit. In
others the marrow turns
to dust or rust with
cancer or worse. My spirit
is sick or I cannot for the
life of me understand my own
pain. This is our time but
mine is blocked and remains
so by the long shift down
from a place of great promise
to a resting place.
That place. This place here. Complete
with fear. Yes, this place here.
And when I think of you I
think of warmth and time and
distance. When I think of you
I think of letting go. Of
not returning. Of stress. Of
course. I think of everything
that a place is, then some,
then nothing at all but desire,
satiation, desire, fire, then
nothing at all. Then I think
of love. From out here love is
the dark sea. From out here in
that same quiet, from that same
impression, a great impression,
love is acceptance my love. My
quiet love. My only love.

~Rose
April 21, 2010
for Lord Byron.

Alter Boys - Part 1

At the park, Faf chased the squirrels and tried to shit (she's been constipated). I stood on our hill after coaxing her to give up on the shitting and instead climb the embankment to listen to the new life screaming. And the new life was literally screaming - thousands of croaking frogs in the nook between the ridge line and horse path. Several acres of prime beautiful wetlands singing with the sounds of spring. Horny toads literally squawking in the possibility of new life. Above that and just over the ridge line was the constant hum of highway, rubber on asphalt. In years past I'd hear that invasive sound and cuss it for death, then leave good and far to the mountain west and look for Jesus on high mountain passes. Sounds overly Romantic and it is but also, somehow, not far off. The anxiety to leave presents itself as a slow and methodical refrain, then a memory. All the while I try to remain present. I just live now, because we aren't in the past or the future, I recall (more or less the gist) from a bad book of Bob Dylan quotes. "That's a tough one," I told NW. "Yea man, it is, because the past shapes the present. The past made it." "God damn it," I say in my head but it squeaks out audibly in a mild turrets kind of a way. That's what happens when I'm down, I hear repetition and begin reciting words like a mantra. All of this, even these words fall out immediately to the past, as they are memory now, I think. "I'm a single point of god damn consciousness," I say audibly, alone now, in that audible memory kind of way again, disliking the sound of it so hoped it would not remain. "Of course it will however," I thought and watched the heat vapor from the morning sun dancing on the thin west wall above the faucet. Just beautiful. Easter morning. I look back at Lord Byron preparing for the feast. "Today I want to remember the bride whore Magdelane - the first bitch to see Jesus after he rose from the dead," I say. "Oh?," she replies looking around her shoulder from the edge of a beautiful dress currently receiving a righteous lady primping for holiday showtime. I don't know what compels me to say these things - "There must be a kick ass gym in heaven because Jesus rolled that boulder away from the tomb only after three days. A huge fuckin' boulder like twice the size those Scottish guys could move. We're talkin' big boy Jesus in top good form right there for the bride whore Magdalene to see." "Jesus," Lord Byron replies. "Exactly," I reply behaving badly. We showed up to church late and couldn't find a place to sit. The rear was full of screaming children. Lord Byron led us instead to a small section of pew just behind the formidable wooden pillar painted brain gray which served as a wall between alter view and the parishioner unfortunate enough to land that spot. "Sit close," Lord Byron says pulling me toward her, sensing my frustration. (Part 1)