sax-haver - Tumblr blog

[sax-haver]

www.tdick.gov

[sax-haver]

there is a room where i've been livin

dank with the smell of mold and ruin

smoke stains mar the peeling walls

dark so thick my heartbeat stalls

but when you come in the lights turn on

there is a room i like to stay in

the rent is high but i've been payin

blood and bone and tears and dust

and years of doing what i must

i didn't want you to see me in my mess

if i tell you that i'm fine

will you believe me?

if i tell you i'm alive

will you believe me?

if you tell me you love me

will the lights stay on?

[sax-haver]

I am a phoenix crying out for fire, an infant screaming with the wrath of being born

A force with no form, a wind with no direction

Infinite potential in infinite space

The ravenous expanding universe

The indecision of a crossroads is nothing compared to an open field as wide as the eye can see

I wonder who I will be when I start walking

I wonder when I’ll figure out where I’m going

[sax-haver]

Would you love me if I was a worm?

You say yes without a thought

I bite my tongue and stop from asking if you would love me as myself

Would you love me tarnished and blemished

With flaws and sins abound

With difficulties and insecurities

And days with madness wrought

Will you love me as myself

Difficult to handle and oh so human in my existence

Or would you like me to be a worm, uncomplicated

[sax-haver]

memory's pyre

a pyre of memory & aspiration, where embers of nefarious wonderings waft heavenward

nefarious - because they’re totally ethereal, delusional

appearing as urgent & imminent as a toothache, or stubbed toe in the dark;

nonetheless suffusing the room’s air with an earthy, ancient musk, borne of a ghost gasping in the throes,

collapsing & sinking through the floorboards, lacking fiber. * 3/23 - lebuc - memory’s pyre

[sax-haver]

The first time I tried to change out my septum piercing, I left the wound open too long

Within twenty hours, it was entirely healed

Gone

As if it had never existed

And I think it’s funny, what my body chooses to remember

Because it’s been six months since you left your words in me

And the hole in my heart is as raw as ever

How many pieces of you must I remove before I can start to heal?

[sax-haver]

“I used to think no one would ever love me the way I love them,” I confess to you. 

My cat blinks her eyes at me and I press a kiss between her ears. A fourteen-year-old boy makes me laugh on a gloomy day. Spring leaves bud on an ancient tree and I breathe deep. How beautiful that there are five languages for me to love you in.

“You’ll never know if anyone loves you in the same way you do,” you say gently, and I think I can accept the love you give me.

[sax-haver]

It’s easier if I pretend that I am not alive

And sometimes I can’t help but wish that everyone would die

And then there would be no one left for me to leave behind

My memories are fading, but it’s fine

My body isn’t kind to me, I’m unkind to it too

I stare up at the sky; my younger self loved cobalt blue

An energy drink sizzles on my desk as it goes flat

I’d give anything if I could turn time back

I want to the the greatest mathematician ever seen

I want to be a scientist and study coral reefs

I want to sell out concert halls, instead I’m curled in a ball

On my bedroom floor, pretending I’m not real

The hardest part of healing is to want to be alive

If I put it off for long enough, I won’t have to decide

It’s better to be hated than loved for what you’re not

And yet here I am, still living a facade

[sax-haver]

I’m sadly gonna die one day.

I’m happily gonna live forever,

Ever after.

Whatever’s after,

Will seem like a coalescence

Of coincidence,

Of the coolest ocean spritz

that, for a second,

stings like volcanic, ash, and wind.

When it’s all said and done?

I will only begin.

[sax-haver]

Woodshedding

Practice makes perfect, or that’s what they say

I follow the rules, I keep perfect time

The painstaking ritual of cleaning each note

The room resonates with a sweet chalumeau

80 beats, 90 beats, one hundred, one-twenty

Is this good enough yet? Will I ever be ready?

A mirror before me to catch my mistakes

I’ll stay here for hours if that’s what it takes

A wristful of carpals can take the fall

Mind over matter; I need to get better

The ache in my joints is the sign of success

This is what it takes to be the best of the best

Every squeak means that I’ve failed them all

Each slip of the fingers more dirt on the grave

Of the bright young girl who had so much potential

No one predicted my looming eventual

Downward spiral. They never told me that passion

Wasn’t enough to escape the poison of profession

I need to be better. I need to do better.

I need to be impressive. Nothing else matters.

[sax-haver]

fuck does anyone have that poem thats like the speaker used to press her ear to conch shells when she was a child but as an adult the world has closed its second mouth or something

[sax-haver]

Ah, the classic trolley problem. Do you allow the trolley to continue on its current trajectory, killing multiple people? Or do you take the initiative to kill the one, and save the many?

You may wonder why they’re on the track to begin with. Happenstance, circumstance, love, stupidity, bravery. It doesn’t matter. You’re avoiding the question.

They want me to save them. They think the person on the other track will harm me (they’re right). They say that they love me (I might believe them). I don’t want to hurt them, do I?

And yet to act is to choose, and to choose is to change, and to change is to die. No matter how many people I hurt, it is only natural to drive them out of my life. Easy, familiar, and who knows? Around that bend could be a benevolent brick wall that will shatter my regrets like so many fragile bones. There is a reason I’m headed this way, and who am I to change it?

On the other track stands misery, high-achieving golden child, gifted, weak, lonely, meant to die at seventeen. The one I no longer have to be, and yet he has always been with me. O, the joy of knowing oneself, the delight of endless commisery.

[sax-haver]

is poetry dead?

* …go ask a poet & listen to their rambling,

determine if it’s stanzaic or prosaic in nature.

if the former, poetry is not dead & long live the poets;

but if it’s the latter - then it is; & may i suggest that

you kindly join it on the pyre, & revel in your rabble

whilst I go off to a corner & babble:

scrabble rousing the grouches who have neither a home or a pouch to house the foam outflowing from their mouth as they decry the spirit from which we live and breathe, um - hearing grieving over rhyme & reasoning, spiced with stanza’d seasoning, ‘spressing somber thoughts or in jest in vestibules of diamond-dreamed jewels honed with fuel - the best, polishing a glistening sheen, reflecting a dual spectral engine of dreams, knowledge & wisdom with gleam; weaving webs that neither ebb nor wane cut free  from the spurning twee far-fallen from a learning tree like acorns uncollected, now scorned & mold-infected in their rectitude which proves to be naught but misdirected attitudes we’re behooved to remove in the light of this reality’s onslaught…

as i bid you all a good night & finish my draught. * 12/22 - lebuc - is poetry dead?

[sax-haver]

I am a crystal figurine. The finest quartz, perfect clarity, glimmering on a shelf somewhere for you to look at me. I don’t have feelings. If I did I might crack and you wouldn’t want to look at me anymore. If I did you might grab hold of me and smash me into the ground where I would shatter into a million tiny pieces and I would never be myself again. Feelings exist somewhere outside of me, where they can’t crush me under their immense and unyielding presence. I would never fall victim to a stress fracture. I am here to look pretty. I am here to look impressive. Don’t I look impressive?

[sax-haver]

vampin'

* jazz musicians at least the good ones  will improvise on a musical theme usually the melody or some recognizable motif.

i’m no jazz musician but in my more expansive times, i can fancy…

the theme is maintaining a measure of sanity & serenity   in these technologically & spiritually precocious climes:

where a reason & a rhyme can be the stitch in time to keep us safely behind that thin blue line in the sand life hands you alongside an inner view providing an insight into the phantom crew’s paid purview parlayed on the nightly news in addition to the sights & scenes writ rightly in your hand on a pixelated screen amidst the likes & memes, planned fights & dreams of the alt but not quite right wing while hard leftists sing hefting the flag of revolution without a coherent replacement scheme or solution thru homogeneity dilution & gaiety infusion yet confusing yon compassionates & graduates of the school of hard knocks upside your block in lieu of a gun cocked tick-tocked back to a time of no loose screws the good book didn’t have a scripture misapplied to with outright lying to sustain a dying world view held mainly in the plains of our carnivorous domain of growing pains built for collusion & gain with a steady infusion of subsumed fear ingrained   to enfold the masses into striated classes yet again in a game we’re no longer straining to play in…

(drum solo)

(theme motif recap)

coda. * 10/22 - lebuc - vampin’

[sax-haver]

[text ID: Jesus fuck I want my mouth on that scar. side wound not quite knit closed like christ’s pierced flesh. some think he birthed an institution from there, but I’d rather pleasure than procreation, especially when we’re talking church. I’ve got all the worship I want thinking of fitting my mouth around those fingers, tracing the surgery site with my tongue. seduction like I get hard watching you walk, the arc of that tap and glide. something about the art of remaking the world in your image, sexy as a dropped curb, as the panicked looks we get. lust, limping at top speed, & the most I’ve washed my sheets in years. they say it’s a symptom like that’s a bad thing, but I’ve been celebrating every twitch and wince for ages, add it to the list. let’s rejoice in the flushed irrational, the enhanced & at-risk heart, hungry for you in these kitchens we can’t use. let's put a few more dents in my walls. let’s make the abled state avert its gaze. end ID.]

[sax-haver]

Do you like it? Yes, I say, then, no; the lie slips practiced from my tongue,

My downy feathers fluffed against the cold I fear spilling from your lips 

I want to trust your brightness, the warmth you radiate

I want to fly carefree in the azure of your sunny day

Do you like it?

Throw caution to the winds of a raging winter storm

I claim your sanctuary, the bright calm at the eye.

The surrounding gale ruffles my feathers, threatens to carry me off,

To be blown away like all the birds whose names I’ll never know

Do you like it?

But I see them still in broken wings and scattered feathers,

Idents in the uncaring snow surrounding my salvation

Their talons are my talons; their hollow bones my bones

All marked to be broken, all doomed to die alone

Do you like it?

Each time I tell the truth, a part of me is still afraid

To open up is to risk that you will strip away my feathers,

Become a blizzard faster than I can blink an eye

Your warmth has never faltered, but caution is my birthright

Frigid birds with hollow bones can melt and break so quickly

I hope you will forgive me when I shy away and hide