Being two (song) ...

P-p-P-p-Please—NO!

J-j-Ju-j-Just—NO!

B-b-Bu-b-But—NO!

Sh-sh-Sh-sh-Sh—

                                  I do this for the common good:

                             I must assert my personhood;

                            if you say yes, I say yes too,

                         then I am just a mirror of you—NO!

P-p-P-p-Plea—NO!

J-j-Ju-j-Jus—NO!

B-b-Bu-b-Bu—NO!

Sh-sh-Sh-sh-Sh—

                          What you want is to give me

                            just option-A or option-B;

                               don't want bloody wars, don't want dull peace,

                                  don't want you saying, “Oh, calm down, please!”—NO!

P-p-P-p-Pl—NO!

J-j-J-j-Ju—NO!

B-b-B-b-Bu—NO!

Sh-sh-Sh-sh-Sh—NO!

“This, or this, or this?” 

                                       NO!

“That or that or that?”  

                                       NO!

“Which, oh which, oh which?” 

                                      NO!

“WHAT oh What oh What?!”  

                                        NO!!!

The honest irony (re-write) ...

{credits: "When the Leather is a Whip" by Martin Espada; Online flirter donated by Stephanie}

I was hard, once. So the best I could love

was hard. People felt tweaked when they hugged me.

I was loud and unrelenting, so my love was ugly.

She was a torn soul. So her affection was

sometimes terrible: “I hate you!” “No I love you! Intensely!”

Everything she felt, she spread immensely.

They were always drunk. So they got

more drunk together. He died at 51 in a car crash.

She sold all his things, and drank the cash.

*

When I was 12, I looked at this picture

Every night, of a woman in her pale underwear.

Touched myself, felt lightning there.

You might have asked me at 24, was that love?

And I'd have laughed you a “No-hh!!” But then again,

at 24, I was a pompous prick; I wouldn't have dated me then.

For my own, my ex's, my uncle's ghost's sake—

for all that I want to embrace and adore—I think I've decided to understand:

my love is only as good as I am.

My love is as good

as I am.

The last note of a lecture ...

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Is the most frustrating question.

“DO YOU? ... UNDERSTAND?”

Compresses our relation    to a lesson.

Of course!  I!  don't understand

what you mean and    where your head is;

I live in    first-person limited,

and I'll die here,     and I regret this.

“I THINK SO?” is all, in truth,

I could ever presume to tell you.

“I THINK I GET YOU?” even

this is straining past my purview:

I've never worn an elephant's head

nor cried, through a martyr's blood, forgiveness.

Never lived in a starfish's absence-of-

mind, nor an earthworm's body, limbless.

And I've definitely never taken due time

to study what-all makes you angry;

the habitual world that frustrates you,

the sense that you've made, that you hand me:

“ARE YOU SAYING THAT ...(I must

shout back, to make sure I'm not overreaching)...

YOU'RE FEELING SMALL, AND SOMEWHAT

LOST, AND SO YOU SCREAM YOUR TEACHINGS?”

It's 4:30 ...

{flashback: 2015}

If you were here,

       I'd go to sleep early,

I wouldn't eat so many servings,

I'd have laughed a little more, and

been nervous about making you sad.

       Been  happy when  you giggled.

If you were here,

I'd walk up               next to you

just to see what you were doing

                   behind the corner.

       And I'd help if I could,

not because I'm a goody-good,

but just because you'd say thanks.

If you were here,

                                             you'd say

                            “don't go blind typing”

                                   And I'd say “okay”

                                             and think

                                     Love you.

The box...

There's only so much you can think                               inside the box.

Is it wooden? cardboard? 

What's it smell with, feel like, taste

                                                    of (if you're bored-to-brave)? 

                                                                                    But that's it.

Listening outside the box, you get ideas:

    I'm an anarchist! 

              Buddhist! 

                     Atheist! 

            I have no label!  

                                                                                       But those words

                                                                                            are all colorless 

                                                   until you throw them through the light.

I think that's why I respect old people: 

they've had

time, to climb out. 

                              Well, some just find a good-sounding line

                                 and say, “I'll repeat that from here; 

                                                 that's safe to claim.”

But others go out and break windows, 

steal cash, deface a

patient statue and realize, 

Shit! Maybe our group needs some rules.

We could put John in charge, to make things 

                                   more dependable.

Others sit long in a field 

and recognize, I can't concentrate!

                          How am I supposed to unite 

       with Gaea when I get restless between

                                            radio sounds? 

I like to own things! And to be right!! 

                                 I'm petty!!!

Others spend a decade 

wearing a pasta-strainer 

in their ID pics

                       to make a statement: 

how silly is religion's hold on people? 

                                        And then

                       at forty, think,  

I'm halfway to dead; 

I'm worried; 

     now I get it.

Others find out that                             electric organs make their skin tingle,

while pop is just irritating,                            and big-label country is fake. 

                                                                                       And they decide,

Sure, I like many sounds,                             but at heart, I'm a Gospel girl.

It takes time to figure out that you are the box.                   YOU, in your

body, with your half-dreamed ideas 

                                                                                     of truth and right; 

that make you feel

                                                                      like you're holed up, alone 

in daylight.                                                                      It takes a while 

to climb out                                                                               of that.

Virunga ...

             For money,                                                              they'll put holes through a home.

But I raised the apes                                                                    whose beds

                                                                                                       They'll bore. 

So I'm loading   a gun.                                                                      And

          I will catch bullets                                                               until I breathe 

                                                                                                      no more.

                      From a distance,                                                 what is a gorilla?

           Nothing but black leather                                            shuffling.

                                For an instant,                                      what is a gorilla?

                      Nothing but pounding                                 and huffing.

                             Without touching or                        watching them 

                                                                                             closely,

                                  Primates' lives seem 

                                             too shit-filled to

                                                                          Treasure. 

                                    When oil, ore, stones under-earth

                                     can be traded—their whole weight

                                         —for pleasure.

                                           But from a touch, what is 

                                                                           a gorilla?

                                        Loving and playing, 

                                                              intelligent power.

                                                For decades, what is 

                                                                     a gorilla?

                                               Growing and learning, 

                                             month,           day,    hour.

                              In an instant, from a distance, a man

                                                      Can aim, can make a gorilla 

                                                                                                  fall. But if

                            He never comes closer      with his senses

                                                                                       Than that, 

                                                                                            is he being a 

                                                                                           human 

                                                                                       at all?