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[mouthlikeajetplane]

Response to J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I, with the blackbirds flying by and by, while the sun screams up from behind mountains, we silently fold newspapers without stutter. Can I bring out toast?  The unsalted butter? The peaches in the bowl, orange and round? Can I distract you slightly from that awful sound Of jackhammers ploughing up my past, Flinging figments and secrets around and fast, Everything too loud and at once dropped. We can add sugar to cups and once again smile, Tentatively at first but then again without guile.

The blackbirds launching off again, this time quicker Their darkness in the magenta sky a disappearing flicker.

Follow me through streets paved blue, gravel crunching Under foot like grit, like teeth munching Sand or rotting out on sickly sweets. I have known those roads, too familiar. Side steps through long days and somber nights. Close your eyes and take my hand, I’ll walk you through to a Neverland of nightmares and lollipops, Stumble and trip, my hands a black sky made to catch you.

Pull out the plates, napkins, the elements of tea, Sweep away crumbles and settle upon this chair I have combed away specks and pieces of bread that is rye, Confused the clock, sipped at lukewarm tea Wondered at the stars and planets and air. Is it vast?  Are we lost?  Have I made reason to ponder?  I am traveling these thoughts around As if on a carousel, spinning and flashes of lights Every part bright in the night while we walk Cinders of ash and soot, a layer of dust Upon my mind, my head full of rust Let us go, through the streets, let us chatter and talk.

The blackbird launching off again, this time quicker Their darkness in the magenta sky a disappearing flicker.

I pull open the doors and closets too Removing hangers and objects past, Exposed like bones and secrets linger, my lips blue Grinning like a voyeur witnessed, obvious and aghast My face like horror, my stomach sick Have you time to reach below?  Hands in waters, black and thick? Not a tick of clockwork returning, destroying reality brick by brick My fingers numb and unrelenting, piles and piles keeping me sick, Nothing stopping, nothing starting, memories flipping past Can we unwind?  Can we reverse? Can I take it all back? Forget my skeletons, my winding truths, too Back into the sunlight, the kitchen, the coffee that is black?

I hear the chorus of mocking jays, far off in the sky Singing melodies of song and praise Building nests, spending their days In a world I cannot see, much less walk through in suit and tie, Following gravel paths to places anew, Everything tilted and askew.  

Claws are pulling, latching Down into rivers and lakes endless in their want. My throat full of words unsaid and lost. All my worst ideas hatching. Everything tilted and askew.

Forests tumblings, tall trees overhead Branching breaking, green and brown, Wood splitting, that horrid sound while falling down. Dirt piling above me, covering around. Stories cannot stop you from falling inside the ground. Burying me until I’m right and dead. Sunlight still pouring on forest floors. Everything still tilted and askew.

May I ask a lonely and foreign thing? Are you capable of no judgement passed, of looking through My crumbled self? To seeing change and things brand new?

I should have been a oyster stuck beneath the waves and ocean tides, mermaid songs as lullabies.

My mind unhinged but followed through, To places bright with your face unnerved. You followed me, an action undeserved. I’m lost but not lost with you. I’ve packed my bags of rotten things, Seaweed grins and mermaid rings. Haunted by the scuttling of claws Reaching, grasping, the sound acute Play for them like from a flute Made of wire and seashell notes. I’ve found my rescue, my body floats. Against the tide that hides it’s angry teeth and slashing paws.

Let us toast once again To breakfast dollies, tea that is sweet, For pastries, jam, and quite fancy things to eat. I’ve retired lines to recite when full Upon our frosted window I pull. And tug the air into our kitchen, full of breath and air again. No need to stop to wipe up jam, or coffee spills Nothing damned and nothing dropped. I find my sadness gone again. With finality I can say it has been stopped. A darkness receding, that’s what I said. The forest forgotten, I said.

To light and a smooth roast, to cakes and treats I follow myself up to the beach Creatures leaping, stingers seeking. A seashore that is ripe with age A reminder of my final stage Black and white and swollen too I cannot say I have much to do The folly done, the wrongs unwritten, the beach descending on me slowing, following with tricks and treats, It swallows me without a breach. A darkness receding, that’s what I said. The forest forgotten, I said.

The waves are tossing, turning, plundering My mouth of salt, my hair wet against my face, My mind is calm like the water lapping, it won the race I have given in, all is fine My love has understood the crime Of much too much, of everything dark There’s nothing left, no more time I am unafraid to descend, I’m at the mark Count three, count two, I’m floundering.

My love, she still sings to me In ears too full of sea for those sweet whisperings.

Blue and green are washing ‘round. To the waves I am surely bound. My mutterings, a dreadful sound.

Swim to me, my love, come with me.  Deep into a water city.

Places set and teacups empty I’ll drag you into my drowning dream, We both tethered and losing steam The salt engulfing, the sun is black I cannot hear you, cannot feel Remember this is all but real.

[mouthlikeajetplane]

It’s only after you notice an ache that you know it must always have been there.

Jane Hirshfield, from Engraving: World-Tree With An Empty Beehive Branch (via violentwavesofemotion)

[mouthlikeajetplane]

I despise my own oversensitiveness, which requires much reassurance, but which also makes me so aware of other’s people sensitivity.

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love” -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin (1931-1932)

[mouthlikeajetplane]

I am someone who thinks and feels much–more than is reasonable. And that is all.

Virginia Woolf, from Moments Of Being: Unpublished Writings (via violentwavesofemotion)

[mouthlikeajetplane]

[mouthlikeajetplane]

Do you know that this is what my trying looks like?

[mouthlikeajetplane]

I can feel it in you. The numbness. The apathy that spreads like flowers across your vision. That there is one part screaming and one part purposely ignoring the screams to instead move through the motion. Like walking through water every single day. Every moment a bit harder than the last because you grow so tired. Tired at the end of the night in a way that numbs your mind for you.

[mouthlikeajetplane]

I feel like you know that I can help you. That I have always been your sun, and that we can begin again. That you can show me your moonshine and we can be drunk in the middle of the night off of it, howling like the wolves we sometimes are and everything could return. There can be fortune cookies and plucked flowers and comments in the margins. I can tell you my secrets and keep yours and feel known. You feel known with me, remember that. You feel known, and I reflect that same image back at you. Show me your moonshine Tell me to take a sip And get drunk, howling at the moon Like the wolves we sometimes are And always try to hide Even from each other. I can handle your darkness Am familiar with your thorns And rotten blooms of red. I know the hidden paths Into your darkest everything. I don’t need a key, I've always kept the spare.

[mouthlikeajetplane]

[mouthlikeajetplane]