Application to the Forgiving for Consideration in Love

Dear Sir:

If I could know love, then I could love.

And perhaps I do. . .

I am a young woman, five-foot-six, with dyed black hair and green eyes.  When I was a child, the profile of my nose was like a ski slope.  I have a spot between my eyes from when I had chicken pox.  My lips are fat, but my cheeks are fatter.  I don't like how I look without make-up.  I always wanted to get compliments about my eyes, but I hardly ever do.

My body is confusing.  I have no waist, and my hips are too high.  My stomach is always a little fat.  My breasts hang down in a useless sort of way.  But worst of all are my thumbs:  One is longer than the other, and they're both too short.  And my fingernails are flat and boring.

Dear Sir, these are only the externals of what you will have to overlook in me.  I am cold, but emotional.  I am pretentious.  I am ungiving to the depths of my soul.  Deep within me is a calloused, dark thing that could cause me to deny your existence someday.

Shall I go on?  I'm self-centered and self-serving.  And self-righteous.  

Do you love me still?  I am demanding.  I am moody.  I am reserved.

If, kindly, you will give me a chance, however, I might be able to find what you want.  For I do have a smile.  And I do have a look.  And when I dress up to go out, I really can look great.

And I've got a strength.  I've got a power.  I am intelligent, but not obnoxious.  I enjoy happiness, but I have serious concerns.  I love doing things for people.  I love people.  And life.  And this, I might share with you.

Dear Sir, please, take this hand, and hold this wretched thumb.  Take my eyes and behold them as emeralds.  Take my heart, and feel the strength and the energy that pumps my blood.  My love beckons you.

Dear Sir, please overlook what I have learned to overlook in myself.  If you will bear the burden of my shortcomings -- if, in fact, you will see some beauty in me -- then I am yours, all yours, for eternity.

- Jan 4. 1986, A.D.

That Deep, Begging Bed

That deep

begging bed of grass

rather soft

rather irritating

it's where I lie

most of the time, these days

the snake got me early 

so I ate from the picnic basket

it's no wonder I had to

share it with you

with a severed lip

I made love to you

on solid ground

and now

we torturously cling

to the edge

of the cliff

and I want to mean well

but the skin of my fingers

is coming off

how can I smile

when I'm trying to hang on?

you don't understand

why I bite

because I hate the infant

but I love the child

so roll over

I need some room on

this flat earth

we'll find the missing sock

tomorrow

we'll toss the grease out 

another day

don't you worry

just keep looking the other way

and you're bound

to miss it, again

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.

Intermittents

I can remember, now

I feel it again. . .

That pitch black blanket of time

flowing in, flowing out of reality

limbs, entangled --

whose limbs?

Flowing in

a blackish gray movement

adjustment

then, a definable motion

tentacles, smoothly sweeping over

my grayness

my tepid --

Flowing in

I check again

is it skin?

There is something

blocking my aloneness

Flowing in

it's something 

completely outside of me --

foreign

but as gray

almost as familiar

adjustment

it moves again

Flowing in

my god, it's a hand!

Oh, yes, of course

it's a hand

warm, defined

I find a hand, myself

I move it across they grayness

in front of me

Flowing in

it's him, again

we stir

I entertain a thought

What is the time?

I keep my eyes closed

Flowing out

no matter

no worry

no more thoughts

warmth and stillness suffice

-- and the vision

Flowing out

quicksilver going down

a fountain

some words I'll never 

remember

Flowing out

into blackness

and streaks of colors

Heavy, heavy

Here,

I have no grayness

to call my own. . .

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.

Thanks for the Short-Term Memories, or How to Get Back on that Unicorn and Ride

I know you're thinking I'm stuck in the past, but if you knew me now, I don't think you would see that.  In fact, I'm not the kind of person who even remembers the past.  If it weren't for the old boxes of notebooks and journals that I saved (most of which haven't even been opened in 20 years), it would all be lost to the ether.  I can keep friends forever, but I don't hang on to memories.

And thank god for short-term memories.  When you're young, growing into new skin and falling in love every two weeks, it really helps to not remember every humiliation that naturally follows.

But I remember enough to tell you that 1985 was really great.  In '82, '83 and '84, I had been mesmerized by unrequited love like sparklers at a birthday party. 1985 was full-on Fourth of July fireworks.  I'll be honest - it was my best year for romantic adventures and real, requited love.  Finally, what all those poems were for, right?  It was "The Rise and Fall of the Love Empire", as I called it, and I had a lot of muses.  [All right, that sounds bad, but come on!  Do you really want this story to end without love, and, at long last, some randy romps through the garden of earthly delights?  After all I've been through?]

I might say something earnest, now, about how I learned something from each lover along the way.  This is true.  I had a lot to learn.  But the most remarkable thing about '85 for me was that I felt free.  Coming of age felt good.  I was self-confident and eager.  I was graduating, going to college, and the whole world felt like it was opening up to me.  I still went through some sad, teachable moments; but in hindsight, I can't complain.  There's a lot I did that year that I won't recommend to anyone's children.  For example, AIDS was just beginning to come into our consciousness, so throwing caution to the wind didn't seem like such a gamble.  But at some point, I have to admit it was just plain fun.  Exploits that my parents would have called "irresponsible" turned out to be a blast.  24 years later, I'm here to say that there was no harm done.

The adventures that I regret - the ones that hurt me the most - were all related to slavish devotion to men who would never love me the way I felt I should be loved (although, to be honest, the door swung both ways).  There's plenty of that in my future, by the way.  By comparison, the shallow trysts and the roads-going-nowhere, the "friends with benefits" and the well-meaning infatuations (followed by well-meaning changes of heart) were really just fine by me.  It was all great while it lasted, and it kept my spirits up and out of the gutter of depression that I tended to sink into when I was bored.

And through it all, I kept writing, as prolifically as ever.  My book was nearly complete:  "Poetry:  100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)".  Complete, but never sent out into the world.  Typed, bound, and left on my desk, along with a whole host of good intentions.  But I'm not going to get you down just yet.  For now, enjoy 1985 in all its glory.  It was the best of times, I'm sure - even for someone who can't remember.

Poetic Justice

Chills,

Thrills, and Spills

My soul is wriggling

beneath it's skin:

"Let me in!  Let me in!"

It's so sad to be Anonymous

and even I, myself, mistaken

I am shaken

to the bone

By Metaphor, Persona, and Tone

I am filled 

beyond my limit

with Symbolism

and Imagery in it

And just today, I've made my choice:

the world will know this poet's voice

So let the critics speak their fear

that yet another poet's here

And gladly starve, and gladly rot

for after death to share the spot

within a textbook, or a journal

or a placemat, or a paper

and though fame is known to taper --

Let me clearly be defined 

with little numbers by my lines

and little footnotes, stand to reason

when my speech is out of season

that professors will interpret

just the lines that they see fit

And happily, I'll face the hunger

both above and deep down under

but from the world, I do command

one single, solitary stand:

That in life, we be acknowledged

for the labor of our poet's hands.

- Dec. 16, 1985, A.D.

The Hour of Relative Impermanence

The hour of relative impermanence

slips by like a ghost --

kind of hazy and midnight blue;                kind of

soft and satisfied

I lower myself onto the paper

it takes me;

we breathe together

Listless river of night

soothing pond of time

we dream,

we use our words in the silence to say 

yes.

Yes, we know them well

Yes all will be complete

it's a dream, you know

don't be afraid to face it

we make these dreams

the day is functional

the night is cerebral

we make these dreams

We sift ourselves in time

Is this me?

Or, it could be this

notations and footnotes

I could be an essay

I could be a piece of cheese

But no, I am a Yes

I am a sultry Uh-Huh

moving smoothly down that placid stream

with a persuasive mellowness,

I communicate with my existence

Sensations unite

it's the hour of relative impermanence

I dream,

alive

and in this dream

I write an essay               And it says

Yes.

- Dec. 11, 1985, A.D.

Vac U

They believed in what it was

They followed the path that the others

had laid out

They learned how to live in the vacuum

I wonder

If I was ever alone

in my rebellion of it

I believed I was different

I believed I was alone

But here, I see I suffer with the rest

There is something terribly wrong 

in the Institution

It will suck you up

if you don't rebel

But it's the rebellion that kills

It drives us to our half-dead state

Our teachers can't teach

Our students can't learn

Education is dead at the State U

Perhaps

there is a place for me

Perhaps I don't belong in school

But then, who does?

Who belongs to the death?

Perhaps they will tell me

that I am at fault

I can belong, but I don't

They want to help me learn

to live in the vacuum

If I go to them,

they'll let me know that they care

But why?

Why do they exist?

Why must I shake away part of my mind

to reach goals of prosperity?

I'm already believing

that what I feel is not unique

Next, I will learn to work in spite of discontent

Then, I will lose my life

I will believe in what it is

I will follow the path that the others have 

laid out

I will learn how to live in the vacuum

- Dec. 2, 1985, A.D.